THE BITTER PARTING.
Just at the entrance of the village, the Count met with his companion
Du Bar.
"Have you heard all?" demanded that officer. "What is to be done?"
"Get the boats ready with all speed," replied the Count. "The tide
will turn within half an hour, the ships will be able to come farther
in. Twenty or thirty persons may get off in the first boats, which
must come back again for a second freight. I see clearly, my friend,
that there is no intention of dealing harshly with us. All the
officers wish us to escape, and there will be no more firing from the
castle. I must leave the embarkation, and all that, to you, Du Bar,
for I have things to go through that will try my heart to the utmost.
I must have a few minutes to make up my mind to parting with my
friends and companions, and all that I love on earth, forever.--Du
Bar," he continued, while the other wrung his hand affectionately,
"there will be a young lady who will accompany you, and that girl, the
daughter of poor Virlay. You have a wife and children yourself, whom
you love, I know, fondly and devotedly. They are in safety, you told
me, on those opposite shores which I shall never see. But let me
beseech you,--by the memory of these dark and terrible days, when the
hand that now presses yours is laid in the dust, as I know too well
must soon be the case,--let me beseech you, I say, to give every aid
and assistance to those two that I now commit to your charge. Be to
the one as a brother, Du Bar, and to the other as a father. I know you
to be honest and true as you are brave and wise; and I shall lay my
head upon the block with more peace at my heart, if you promise me
that which I now ask."
"I do, I do," replied the Marquis, with the tears standing in his
eyes. "I do promise you, from my heart, and I would fain persuade you
even now to consider----"
But the Count waved his hand and rode on.
There was a considerable crowd round the entrance of the little inn,
and he had some difficulty in making his way in. At the door of the
room where he had fixed his own quarters, he found two or three of the
royalist soldiers; but, passing by them, he entered the room, when a
sight met his eye which might well chill and wring his heart.
The room was nearly empty, but stretched upon the long table, which
occupied the midst, was the fine noble form of the Chevalier d'Evran,
now still in death. Standing near the head of the body, was the old
English officer, Sir Thomas Cecil, with an air of deep stern grief
upon his fine and striking countenance. His hat was off, showing his
white hair, his arms were crossed upon his chest, his head was erect
as ever, and nothing like a tear was in his eye: but there was no
mistaking the expression of his countenance. It was that of intense
sorrow. But on the other side of the table grief was displaying itself
in a different manner, and in a different form. For there knelt
Clemence de Marly, with her beautiful head bent down over the dead
body; her hair, fallen from its bindings, scattered wildly, partly
over her own shoulders, partly over the breast of the Chevalier; her
left hand clasping that of the dead man, her eyes and face buried on
his bosom, while the convulsing sobs that shook her whole frame, told
how bitterly she was weeping.
The Count paused with a look of deep sadness: but there was no anger
or jealousy in his countenance. The old English officer, however, as
soon as he perceived him, hurried forward, and took both his hands,
saying, in a low and solemn voice, "You must let her weep, Count, you
must let her weep! It is her brother!"
"I have been sure of it for several days," replied the Count. "She
told me not, but I knew it from what she did tell me. This day of
agony, however, Sir, is not yet over. I must disturb her grief but to
waken her to more. You know the short time that is allowed for flight.
You know the fate that would await her here if she were to remain in
this country as what is called a relapsed heretic, by the cruel
persecutors of this land. Within two hours from this time, my good
Sir, she must take her departure for ever. The boats will be ready,
and not a moment must be lost; and in those two short hours she must
part with one who loves her as well as ever woman yet was loved, with
one who truly believes she loves him as well as woman's heart can
love--and who shall say where is the boundary of that boundless
affection? She must part with him, Sir, for ever, and with her native
land."
"This is not her native land," replied the old officer. "The lady
Clemence Cecil, Sir, is an English woman. But in one respect you say
true. My poor niece must go, for I have experienced in my own person,
as you know, now daring is the injustice of arbitrary power in this
land, in the prisons of which, I, an English subject, have been
detained for more than a year and a half, till our own papistical and
despotic King chose to apply to your despot for my liberation, and for
the restoration of my brother's children. She must leave this land
indeed. But your words imply that you must stay behind. Tell me, tell
me, my noble friend, is this absolutely necessary, in honour and in
conscience?"
The Count grasped his hand, and pointed to the dead body. "I promised
him," he said, "who lies there, that I would surrender myself to the
King's pleasure. I have every reason to believe, that, in
consideration of that promise, he dealt as favourably with us as he
was permitted; that he even went beyond the strict line of his duty to
give us some facilities of escape; and I must hold my promise to the
dead as well as if he were here to claim it."
"God forbid," said Sir Thomas Cecil, "that I should say one word
against it, terrible as is your determination--for you must well know
the fate that awaits you. It seems to me that there was only that one
act wanting, to make you all that our poor Clemence ought to love on
earth, at the very moment she is to lose you for ever. See, she is
raising her head. Speak to her, my friend, speak to her!"
The Count advanced and threw his arms round her. He knew that the
grief which she felt was one that words could do nothing to mitigate,
and the only consolation that he offered was thus by pressing her
fondly to his heart, as if to express that there was love and
tenderness yet left for her on earth. Clemence rose and wiped; way her
tears, for she felt he might think that some doubt of his affection
mingled with her grief for her brother, if she suffered it to fall
into excess.
"Oh, Albert," she said, "this is very terrible. I have but you
now----"
A hesitation came over the Count de Morseiul as she spoke those words,
gazing tenderly and confidingly upon him: a hesitation, as to whether
he should at once tell her his determination, or not let her know that
he was about to remain behind, till she was absolutely in the boat
destined to bear her away. It was a terrible question that he thus put
to his own heart. But he thought it would be cruel not to tell her,
however dreadful might be the struggle to witness and to share.
"Alas, Clemence," he replied, "I must soon trust you, for a time at
least, to other guidance, to other protection than my own. The boats
are preparing to carry off a certain number of our friends to England.
You must go in one of them, Clemence, and that immediately. Your noble
uncle here, for such I understand he is, Sir Thomas Cecil, will
protect you I know, and be a father to you. The Marquis du Bar, too,
one of the noblest of men, will be to you, as a brother."
Clemence replied not, but gazed with a look of deep, earnest,
imploring inquiry in the countenance of her lover, and after a moment
he answered that look by adding, "I have given my promise, Clemence,
to remain behind!"
"To death, to death!" cried Clemence, casting herself upon his bosom,
and weeping bitterly, "you are remaining to die. I know it, I know it,
and I will never quit you!"
The Count kissed her tenderly, and pressed her to his heart; but he
suffered not his resolution to be shaken. "Listen to me, my Clemence,"
he said. "What may be my fate I know not: but I trust in God's mercy,
and in my own uprightness of intentions. But think, Clemence, only
think, dear Clemence, how terrible would be my feelings, how tenfold
deep and agonising would be all that I may have to suffer, if I knew
that, not only I myself was in danger, but that you also were in still
greater peril. If I knew that you were in imprisonment, that the
having followed the dictates of your conscience was imputed to you as
a crime; that you were to be tormented by the agony of trial, before a
tyrannical tribunal, and doomed to torture, to cruel death, or to
eternal imprisonment. Conceive, Clemence, conceive how my heart would
be wrung under such circumstances. Conceive how to every pang that I
may otherwise suffer would be added the infinite weight of grief, and
indignation, and suspense on your account. Conceive all this, and
then, oh Clemence, be merciful, be kind, and give me the blessing of
seeing you depart in safety, as a consolation and a support under all
that I may have myself to suffer."
Clemence wept bitterly upon his bosom, and the Count soothed her by
every endearing and tender word. At length, she suddenly raised her
head, as if some new idea had struck her, and she exclaimed, "I will
go, Albert. I will go upon one condition, without torturing you more
by opposition."
"What is that condition, dear Clemence?" demanded the Count, gazing on
her face, which was glowing warmly even through her tears. "What is
that condition, dearest Clemence?"
Clemence hid her face again upon his breast, and answered, "It is,
that I may become your wife before I quit this shore. We have
Protestant ministers here; the ceremony can be easily performed. My
uncle, I know, will offer no opposition; and I would fain bear the
name of one so noble and so beloved, to another land, and to the
grave, which may, perhaps, soon reunite us."
The Count's heart was wrung, but he replied, "Oh, beloved Clemence,
why, why propose that which must not--which cannot be; why propose
that which, though so tempting to every feeling of my heart, would
cover me with well-deserved shame if I yielded to it?--Think, think
Clemence, what would deservedly be said of me if I were to consent--if
I were to allow you to become my wife; to part with you at the altar,
and perhaps by my death as a condemned criminal, to leave you an
unprotected widow within a few days."
Clemence clasped her hands, vehemently exclaiming, "So help me Heaven
as I would rather be the widow of Albert of Morseiul, than the wife of
any other man that ever lived on earth!"
Sir Thomas Cecil, however, interposed. "Clemence," he said, "your
lover is right: but he will not use arguments to persuade you that I
may use. This is a severe and bitter trial. The Almighty only knows
how it will terminate: but, my dear child, remember that this is no
ordinary man you love. Let his character be complete to the last! Do
not--do not, by any solicitation of your's, Clemence, take the least
brightness from his bright example. Let him go on, my child, to do
what he believes his duty at all risks, and through all sacrifices.
Let there not be one selfish spot from the beginning to the end for
man to point at; and the Almighty will protect and reward him to whom
he has given power to act uprightly to the last;--if not in this
world, in another he will be blest, Clemence, and to that other we
must turn our hopes of happiness, for here it is God's will that we
should have tribulation."
Clemence clasped her hands, and bent down her eyes to the ground. For
several minutes she remained as if in deep thought, and then said, in
a low but a firmer voice, "Albert, I yield; and knowing from what is
in my own heart, how dreadful this moment must be to you, I will not
render it more dreadful by asking you any thing more that you must
refuse. I will endeavour to be as calm as I can, Albert;--but weep I
must. Perhaps," she added, with a faint, faint smile upon her lips, "I
might weep less if there were no hope; if it were all despair: but I
see a glimmering for exertion on my part, if not exactly for hope; and
that exertion may certainly be better made in another land than if I
were to remain here:--and now for the pain of departure. That must be
undergone, and I am ready to undergo it rather at once than when I
have forgotten my faint resolution. Do you go with me?" she continued,
turning to her uncle; "if it be needful that you stay, I fear not to
go alone."
Sir Thomas Cecil, however, replied that he was ready to accompany her.
Her maid, Maria, was warned to prepare with all speed; and ere a few
more sentences were spoken on either part, the Marquis du Bar came to
inform the Count, that the boats were afloat, and the vessels standing
in, as far as they could into the bay. The Huguenot gentlemen
mentioned in the list of proscription were already on the shore, and
not a little eager to be in the first boats to put off. The soldiery
were drawn up under arms to await the expiration of the truce; and as
the Count and Sir Thomas Cecil led down Clemence, weeping bitterly, to
the sands, a murmur of sympathy and compassion ran through the crowd,
and through the ranks of the soldiery, and the gentlemen drew back to
give her the first place in the boats. Before they reached the edge,
however, the Count, whose eye had been raised for a moment to the
vessels, pointed towards them with a smile of satisfaction.
"Gentlemen," he said, looking round, "I am happy to see that you will
all be able to get off without risk. Do you not perceive they are
sending off their boats for you? Clemence," he said, in a lower voice,
"will you go at once, or will you wait till the other boats arrive,
and all go together?"
"Let me wait--let me wait," said Clemence, in the same low tone.
"Every moment that my hand touches yours is a treasure."
The other boats came in rapidly with the returning tide; and as soon
as their keels touched the sand, and a few words had been spoken to
ascertain that all was right and understood, the Count turned and
said,--
"Now, gentlemen."
There were some twenty or thirty yards of shallow water between the
sands and the boats, and Albert of Morseiul raised Clemence in his
arms, and carried her to the edge of the first. Neither of them spoke
a word; but as leaning over, he placed her in the boat, she felt his
arms clasp more tightly round her, and his lips were pressed upon
hers.
"The Almighty bless thee!" and "God protect and deliver you!" was all
that was said on either side; and the Count turned back to the shore.
One by one the different officers advanced to him in silence, and
grasped his hand before they proceeded to the boats. When they were
all in, and the boats began to push off, the Count pulled off his hat,
and stood bareheaded, looking up to Heaven. But at that moment a loud
shout burst from the soldiery, of "The Count, the Count, they have
forgotten the Count!"
But the Count of Morseiul turned round towards them, and said aloud,
in his usual calm, firm tone: "They have not forgotten me, my friends.
It was you that were mistaken when you thought that I had forgotten
you. I remain to meet my fate, whatever it may be."
A number of men in the ranks instantly threw down their muskets, and
rushing forward, clasped his knees, beseeching him to go. But he waved
his hand, saying gently, "It is in vain, my friends! My determination
has been taken for many days. Go back to your ranks, my good fellows,
go back to your ranks! I will but see the boats safe, and then join
you, to surrender the village and lay down our arms."
The Count then turned again to the sea, and watched the four boats row
onward from the shore. They reached the vessels in safety in a few
minutes; in a few minutes more the boats belonging to the village
began to row back empty. After a little pause some more canvass was
seen displayed upon the yards of the vessels. They began to move; they
sailed out of the harbour; and, after gazing down upon the sand
fixedly and intently while one might count a hundred, the Count of
Morseiul, feeling himself solitary, turned, gave the word of command,
and marched the men back into the village. He entered immediately into
the room where the Chevalier d'Evran lay, and although by this time
all the principal officers of the royalist force were there, with
several other persons, amongst whom was his own servant Riquet, he
walked silently up to the head of the corpse, and gazed for several
minutes on the dead man's face. Then lifting the cold hand, he pressed
it affectionately in his.
"God receive thee, Louis! God receive thee!" he said, and his eyes
filled with the first tears that they had shed that day.
"I see no use now, Sir," he continued, turning to the officer who had
taken the command of the royal forces, "I see no use of delaying any
longer the surrender of the village. I am ready in person to give it
up to you this moment, and also to surrender my sword. The only favour
I have to ask is, that you will make it known to his Majesty that I
had no share in the event by which my unhappy friend here fell. The
shot which slew him was intended for me, as you are doubtless aware."
"Perfectly," replied the commander; "and I have already sent off a
despatch to the King, giving him an account of the events of this
morning; and I myself, joined with all the officers here present, have
not failed to testify our sense of the noble, upright, and
disinterested conduct of the Count of Morseiul. I would fain speak
with him a word alone, however," and he drew him aside to the window.
"Count," he said, "I shall not demand your sword, nor in any way
affect your liberty, if you will promise to go to Paris immediately,
and surrender yourself there. If you would take my advice, you would
go at once to the King, and cast yourself at his feet. Ask for no
audience, but seek admission to him at some public moment If fortune
favours you, which I trust it will, you may have an opportunity of
explaining to his Majesty many things that have probably been
misrepresented."
"I shall certainly follow your advice," said the Count, "since you put
it in my power to do so."
"Ah, gentlemen," cried Riquet, who had been listening unperceived to
all they said. "If the poor Chevalier had lived, the Count would have
been quite safe, for he had the means of proving that the Count saved
the King's life not long ago, of which his Majesty knows nothing. I
heard the man Herval make his confession to the Chevalier with my own
ears; but he could not take it down, for the man died before pen and
ink could do their work."
"That is unfortunate, indeed," said the commander; "but still you can
give your testimony of the facts, my good friend."
"Bless you, Sir," replied Riquet, "they will never believe any thing I
can say."
"I fear not, indeed," replied the Count. "Besides, Sir, my good friend
Riquet, if he went to Paris, would have so much to confess on his own
account, that they would not mind what he said in regard to the
confessions of others."
"Unfortunately, too," said the commander, "all the papers of
Hatreaumont, if I remember right, were ordered to be burnt by the
common hangman. Such was the sentence of the court, I know, and it
must have been executed long ago. However, Count, the plan that I have
proposed is still the best. Speed to Paris with what haste you may;
cast yourself upon the King's mercy; tell him all and every thing, if
he will permit you to do so, and engage all your friends to support
your cause at the same moment. Take your way at once into Brittany,"
he added, dropping his voice, "and from thence to Paris; for I very
much fear that the result would be fatal if you were to fall into the
hands of the intendant of Poitou. He is exasperated to the highest
degree. You have surrendered at discretion, taken with arms in your
hand. He has already broken on the wheel two or three under the same
circumstances; and I dare not deal with him in the same way that the
Chevalier d'Evran did, for I have not sufficient power."
The Count thanked him for his advice, and followed it; and, as we must
not pause upon such circumstances as the surrender of the village, we
shall let that event be supposed to have taken place; and in our next
chapter shall, if possible, pursue this sad history to its conclusion.