Those who have visited France in the present day, who have travelled
over that rich and fertile land from end to end, who have journeyed
through its least frequented districts, and examined into the nooks
and corners which are but little exposed to the eye of the ordinary
traveller, have yet, in general, but a very faint idea of the scene it
presented at the period of which we write. Yet were they to bring
history to aid their researches, from time to time, they would
discover such fragments of a former day as might enable them to call
up before their eyes a true picture of France during the wars of the
League, as a Buckland or a Sedgwick, from the teeth and bones of long
extinct animals, and from the leaves of trees that have decayed for
thousands of years, are enabled to raise up from the waves of time an
image of a by-gone world, and people it with monstrous things, such as
the eye of man probably never beheld in actual existence.
The whole country towards the end of the sixteenth century, torn with
factions, desolated by rapine, stained with bloodshed, knew nought of
commerce, manufactures, or arts, and even agriculture itself, on which
the daily support of the people depended, was accompanied with terror
and danger. Thus hamlets and villages, through wide districts of the
most fertile parts of France, were swept away or left vacant; the
houses of the farmer and the labourer had grown few, and were
sometimes defended with trenches and palisades against any of the
smaller bands that roved the country; the greater part of the
population was gathered into fortified cities; and the rest of the
kingdom was dotted with châteaux and maisons fortes, generally at a
considerable distance from each other, often in the hands of opposite
factions, and always prepared for stern resistance against the attack
of an enemy.
In the part of the country of which we have been writing, these
castles of the old feudal nobility were somewhat numerous; and we must
now beg leave to remove the reader for a time from the Château de
Marzay 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 the
morning of that day of which we have just been speaking, in order that
those who peruse these pages may be made acquainted with some events
which weave themselves into the web of the history as we proceed with
our 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 the
blackness over head, yet the light of a wintry morning had not
sufficiently dawned to enable any one to see within the various rooms
of the château. It was at this period that, in a small chamber,
plainly furnished, and somewhat high up in one of the many towers of
which the building consisted, there sat a very lovely girl, reading by
the light of a small lamp a number of old letters which seemed to
cause deep and painful emotions in her heart; for the tears streamed
rapidly down her cheeks, and almost drowned her sight, as she
continued that which seemed a sad and sorrowful task.
The eyes from which those drops poured so rapidly, were large and
black as jet, but soft and yet lustrous, even when swimming in the dew
of grief. Her hair too, and her fine eyebrows, were of the same inky
hue, but her skin was beautifully fair and clear, with a faint tinge
of the rose in the soft cheek. In years she might be somewhere between
eighteen and twenty, delicate in form, yet with limbs so well
proportioned and lines so exquisitely drawn by the pencil of the Great
Artist, that every movement displayed some new grace, whether when
leaning her head on her hand, she bent down over the page, or raised
her look suddenly to heaven, as if appealing on high for comfort or
for justice.
Her back as she sat was turned towards the door; and her whole soul
was 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 the
lock; she heard no movement in the room. She fancied that all in the
house, but her own sad self, were sleeping quietly till the break of
day. But it was not so; for as she bent over the pages, the door
behind her opened quietly and an elderly woman, dressed in the extreme
fashion of the day, though in a travelling costume, looked in, and
then paused suddenly on seeing the light and the figure I have
described. Her features were aquiline and strongly marked, her eyes
keen 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 needed
no very practised eye to discover, was laid on by another hand than
that 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 with
noiseless step, the perfect silence of which was produced by the
slippers of fur which she wore to defend her feet in travelling from
the cold; and approaching the fair reader from behind, she stretched
forth her long, and somewhat meagre neck, and peered over her shoulder
at the papers on the table.
The next instant, she laid her large thin hand upon them with a firm
and heavy pressure; and the poor girl, starting up with a short
scream, stood before her, with face and lips as white as those of
death, eyes gazing with astonishment and fear, and limbs as motionless
as if she had been turned into stone.
"What is this, Helen de la Tremblade?" said the Marchioness de
Chazeul, in a sharp and ringing tone; "What is this, girl? Answer me
this moment."
"Oh, Madam, pardon me! pardon me!" cried the poor girl, falling at her
feet.
"Pardon you?" said the lady, with a bitter look; "I will first see
what I have to pardon;" and she began to gather up the letters.
"Oh no! no! no!" exclaimed the other, starting on her feet again, and
endeavouring 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 the
other 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 a
step if you dare.--But I will secure you!" and, first gathering up the
letters, she turned to the door, locked it, and walking back to the
table laid the key upon it, while she drew a seat facing the poor
culprit, and repeated, "Sit down, this instant!"
The unhappy girl obeyed, and covered her face, now crimson, with her
trembling hands; and Madame de Chazeul drawing the lamp nearer to her,
began to read the letter which lay at the top, commenting, as she
proceeded, in a low hoarse voice, like the croak of a raven towards
the 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 more
deeply; for her muttered words ceased, her brow put on a still heavier
frown, 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 I
will see more--I will see more!" and she turned to another page.
When she had read some way farther, she laid the letter down again
upon the table, and gazed at it sternly for several moments, with
thoughts evidently busy afar; and then turning to the poor girl, who
sat with her face still covered with her hands, she said, "Come
hither!"
The girl obeyed with slow, trembling, and uncertain steps, not daring
to raise her eyes. When she was near, however, she once more sank upon
her 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 several
moments her lips refused their office, and no sound of voice was
heard. 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 her
mouth that showed no very merciful sensations, "perhaps I will, if you
instantly 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; you
see the words he used, the promises he made; you know that I was left
entirely to his guidance. Often when you were away, he has been here
for weeks together; when you were here, he was always suffered to be
with me. Long I resisted--for two years; ever since my uncle placed me
with you, has he tempted, and urged, and vowed, and I refused. But I
was like a besieged city without assistance or support, and was driven
to 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 me
till 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 of
haughty contempt. "Thus is it ever; when a fool commits a folly, it is
ever because somebody else did not counsel or help him. Was I the
guardian of your virtue, girl?"
"You should have been," replied Helen de la Tremblade, a momentary
spark 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, restraining
herself, she demanded, "Who brought these letters? Who was the pander
to your guilt?"
"Nay, do not ask me that," said her unhappy companion; "be angry with
me, if you will; ask what you please about myself; but do not, do not
vent your wrath on others."
"Will you say?" cried the Marchioness, in a furious tone. "This
moment, 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 Helen
mournfully; "I have injured myself enough; your son has corrupted,
destroyed, betrayed me. With all these vows and promises written with
his own hand, he is now about to wed another, whom he has no right to
wed. Surely this is enough of misery; and I will not make my heart so
sad 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 you
what are such promises!" and, snatching up the whole packet of
letters, she held them open to the flame of the lamp.
Contrary, perhaps, to the expectation of Madame de Chazeul, Helen de
la Tremblade made not the slightest effort to stop her in the act.
Whether it was that she felt her strength was not equal to contend
with the tall and masculine woman, who was thus taking from her the
only proof of those promises by which she had been betrayed, or
whether it was the apathy of utter despair that restrained her, I
cannot tell; but there she stood, motionless though not unmoved, with
her eyes now tearless though full of sorrow, with her lip quivering
but without a sound. Oh, who can tell the dark and terrible feelings
of the poor girl's heart at that moment when, to all the bitterness of
sin, and shame, and sorrow, and betrayed love, and disappointed hope
and blighted affection, she saw destroyed before her face every
evidence of the arts that had been used to deceive her, all that could
palliate, if not justify, her conduct?
The flame caught the letters in an instant; and with a resolute hand
the Marchioness held the papers till the fire nearly scorched her,
then cast the fragments on the tiled floor, and, as they were
consumed, turned with a bitter and a mocking laugh to the poor
culprit, exclaiming, "Now talk of vows and promises!"
"They are written in heaven, if not on earth," replied Helen de la
Tremblade, gazing at her with a degree of firmness that but enraged
her the more.
"Heaven!" she exclaimed in a contemptuous tone, "heaven! do you dare
to talk of heaven? Fool, if that is your resource, I will make you rue
your conduct, at least on earth!" Then advancing to the door, she
unlocked it, returned, and, grasping the poor girl by the arm, dragged
her after her, down the stairs and through the long corridors of the
château, to the outer hall.
Now came the bitterest moment of the whole for the unhappy victim. The
hall was filled with attendants prepared for a journey. There were
servants and armed men, the two maids of Madame de Chazeul, and a gay
page 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 have
opened 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 it
may 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 take
that 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 her
hand, roused into some firmness by the cruel treatment she met with.
"That shall not be needed, Madam," she said. "I go; and when you stand
at 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 a
picture, may you find a more merciful judge than you have proved to
me."
"Away with you, away with you!" cried the Marchioness, adding the
coarsest term of reprobation that in the French language can be
applied to woman. "It is ever thus with such wretches as you: when
detected in sin, they begin to cant. Away with you, I say; let us hear
no more of it!"
Helen turned, and walked slowly towards the door; but the page ran
after her, exclaiming, "Here is your veil, Mademoiselle; you left it
below last night."
Helen took it; but before she could thank him, the Marchioness strode
forward, 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, she
quitted the inhospitable doors, within which virtue and happiness had
been sacrificed for ever.
For some way, she walked along utterly unconscious where she went. We
must not say, she thought either of her situation at the time, of the
past, or of the future; for there was nothing like thought in her
mind. It was all despair; she asked not herself where she should go,
what should be her conduct, what place of refuge she should find, how
she should obtain even necessary food. The predominant sensation, if
any were predominant, was a wish to die; and any road which led her
from that hateful mansion was to her the same.
This troubled state continued for some minutes, till a small wood
concealed her from the castle; but still she walked on, or rather ran;
for her steps, under the impetuous course of her own feelings, grew
quicker each moment as she went. At length she heard the sound of
horses' feet and the grating roll of carriage wheels, and a vague
remembrance of having seen the heavy coach of Madame de Chazeul
standing prepared before the gates, made her believe that she was
pursued by that terrible woman, and, a sudden feeling of terror taking
possession of her, she darted in amongst the trees, and crouched
behind some brushwood.
There she could hear the whole train pass by; and as they wound on
down the hill, she saw the well-known colours and figures sweep slowly
on till, as they were beginning to rise on the opposite slope, they
came to a sudden halt, and a consultation seemed to take place. In a
few minutes two horsemen detached themselves from the rest, and passed
the wood in a gallop towards the château; but poor Helen remained in
her place of concealment; and, as she did so, the tumultuous agitation
of her heart and brain grew somewhat calmer, and a long and bitter
flood of tears brought thought along with it. But, oh how terrible was
reflection! how did she bemoan her own fatal folly! how desolate
seemed her heart! how hopeless--how utterly hopeless--seemed her
situation!
Where could she hide her head? she asked herself--where cover her
shame?--where conceal herself from the eyes of all men?--who would
help?--who would assist her?--who would speak one word of comfort, of
consolation, of sympathy? None, none. From the sympathy of the
virtuous and the good she had cut herself off for ever! Was she to
associate with the abandoned and profligate?--was evil to become her
good?--was moral death to bring her mere mortal life? Ah, no! she
would sooner die, she thought, a thousand-fold sooner die; and she
abhorred herself for her weakness past, more than many who think
themselves virtuous, would abhor themselves for actual crime.
"Why should I stay here?" she asked herself at length. "I am an
outcast--a beggar; my father and mother in the grave; my uncle's
face 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;" and
rising up, with the feeling of desolate despair taking possession of
her once more, she followed the path before her, then turned into
another, then wandered along a third, and thus went on for nearly an
hour-and-a-half, with several of the country people who passed her,
turning round to gaze in surprise at so fair and delicate a creature
straying abroad, with a vacant air and tear-stained countenance, at so
early an hour of the morning.
At length she felt weary; and with listless indifference to all that
might befal her, she seated herself on a stone, at the foot of a
wooden cross, which had been erected by some pious hand beneath a high
tree-covered bank, down which the snow, now melting under the first
warmth of spring, was slipping from time to time in large masses, or
sending forth a thousand small streams, which rendered the road almost
like the bed of a river.
Poor Helen heeded it not, however; she took no notice of the cold and
the wet. The bodily discomforts that she suffered had but little
effect upon her; and, if she perceived them at all, they came but as
things which recalled to her mind more forcibly the hopeless
desolation of her situation. Thus, after a few minutes' rest and
thought, she once more bent down her beautiful head upon her two fair
hands, and wept long and bitterly.
While she was thus sadly occupied, the sound of a horse's feet
striking the plashy ground at a quick pace came down the lane. She
gave it no attention, and the horseman dashed passed her, apparently
without noticing her. It was not so, however; and about a hundred
yards farther on he pulled in his rein, and turned back again. In
another minute he was by her side; and she heard a kind and
good-humoured voice exclaim, "What is the matter, young lady, has any
one injured you?"
Helen de la Tremblade looked up, and beheld in the person who
addressed her a man of a frank and open countenance. He was dressed in
a brown suit of a plain rough cloth, and seemed to be a substantial
countryman of about forty years of age, though his beard and moustache
was somewhat grey. There was a look of pleasant and intelligent
interest on his face, which might have brought back some hope to her
cold heart, for it spoke of sympathy; but she replied in a sad and
bitter tone, "Alas, I have injured myself," bursting into a fresh gush
of tears as the words of self-reproach passed her lips.
The man gazed at her for a moment in silence, seemingly puzzled by the
contrast between her dress and her apparent situation. At length he
exclaimed, "Parbleu! you cannot stay here, my poor girl. You seem a
young thing, and well nurtured; what can have brought you into this
state?"
"My own fault, as well as the cruelty of others," answered Helen de la
Tremblade.
"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 to
afford to be severe, especially when errors are freely acknowledged.
But tell me, can I do anything to help you? I have little time; but I
cannot find in my heart to see a fair young thing like you left to
perish by the road-side."
"Oh!" cried Helen starting up; "if you would but give me shelter for a
single night, till I can think, till I can give my mind some order,
you might save me from destruction. Doubtless," she added, seeing him
pause as if in hesitation, "doubtless you have a home not far off;
doubtless you have wife and children,---daughters perhaps; and should
you hear my prayer, be sure God will bless and protect them, if ever
they 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 the
horseman. "But the truth is, my poor young lady, my home is not very
near. But I would fain help you if I could. Where are your father and
mother? Better go home to them, and if you have offended them, try to
soften 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 I
conceal the truth? my name is Helen de la Tremblade."
"What!" exclaimed the farmer, "the niece of the good priest at the
Château 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 a
houseless outcast."
The horseman dismounted from his beast, and took her kindly by the
hand; "Alas, poor child," he said, "you have been, I fear, under a
hard ruler. I know something of this woman; if not personally, at
least by hearsay; and I can easily believe that she has been harsh and
unkind."
"But I was first in fault," answered Helen, interrupting him frankly,
"I deserved reproach, perhaps punishment, but oh, not so terrible as
this."
"Why, what was the cause?" asked the farmer. "Nay, then," he
proceeded, "as your cheek glows, I will ask no further questions. I
seek 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 you
hence 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 all
that 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 a
shudder, "you do not know--you cannot tell all."
"Well," replied her companion, "perhaps you may think differently by
and by. But in the mean time, how am I to get you hence? I am going to
the village of St. André, some eight leagues distance, and have no
conveyance but the horse I ride. Stay," he continued, "I will go on a
short way, and see if I can find a cottage or farm-house where we can
hire horse or cart."
"Oh do not leave me," cried Helen, "you are the first who has spoken
kindly to me; and perhaps--perhaps if you go you may not return."
"I will, upon my honour," replied the farmer; and setting spurs to his
horse, he was away over the opposite hill in a few moments.
The time went heavily by with Helen de la Tremblade. She asked
herself, "Will not he too deceive me?" and when nearly twenty minutes
passed without her companion's return, her heart sank, and her eyes
once more filled with tears. It had seemed, while he was near her,
that she was not totally abandoned, that she had still some human
being to hold communion with, that she was not, as she had at first
believed, shut out from all sympathies. She knew not who he was, it is
true; she had no information of his name, his station, or his
character; but he had spoken kindly to her, he had shown feeling,
humanity, compassion; and perhaps it was that which had made her fancy
she had seen in his countenance all the higher and nobler qualities of
the mind and the heart. She longed for his return then; and in
counting the weary minutes and listening for every sound, she in some
degree forgot the oppressive weight of the past and future. At length,
tired with expectation, she rose and walked along the road to see if
he were coming; and, as so often happens, no sooner had she given way
to 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 to
her, "I cannot promise you, Mademoiselle de la Tremblade, any long or
sure protection, but I will engage to put you in a place of safety for
a night or two. During that time you will have the opportunity of
thinking over your future conduct. I am not a rich man, but, on the
contrary, a very poor one; yet you shall share what little I have in
my 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 hours
hence, you will find that you have not misplaced your trust. Think of
it as we go; for I cannot speak with you of such things, while your
good squire is with you. Mayhap you might find worse people in whom to
place your confidence than Michael Chasseron."
Helen did not reply; for while he was yet speaking, an old peasant
with the horse which had been promised came in sight; but she mounted
gladly, and rode on beside the companion, whom she had known barely an
hour, with a heart relieved, though not at rest. As they went, too, he
spoke to her of many things, in plain and homely terms, but with wide
and various information, and with a winning kindness and consideration
for her sorrows, which made her feel, that all the world were not
harsh and bitter as those she had just left. She herself said little,
but she found herself constrained in gratitude to answer such
questions as he thought fit to ask; and, although he inquired nothing
directly regarding her situation, and she believed she told him
nothing, yet in fact, long before they reached their halting place he
had learned nearly all that he desired to know, not by her words, but
by his own conclusions.