"Sweet chimes the bell,
O'er slope and woodland pealing,
Mellow'd by distance to a tranquil sound;
Sweetly the rill,
Through moss-bank gently stealing,
Speaks peace around.
"Calm sinks the sun
Unto his golden slumber,
And folds the clouds around his radiant head:
Up springs the moon;
Her star-train without number
Say, 'Nought is dead!'
"All live again,
Although their life be hidden;
For the short space of earth's dominion here.
By Heaven's own voice,
The soul of man is bidden
To hope midst fear.
"All Nature's works,
Though into ashes turning,
Fill the whole heart with a consoling voice:--
Be ready, man!
And, with thy lamp still burning,
Watch and rejoice!"
So sang Lucette,--or, rather, such is a very poor translation of her
song. At the best it was but an old ditty, composed probably by some of
the early Protestants of France. It may have been written by Clement
Marot, or his friend, the poet and printer, Lyon Jamets, for aught I
know. It is so long since I have read the works of either that I have
forgotten somewhat more than half of all their pens produced.
However, so sang Lucette in the chamber now assigned to Edward Langdale,
while Marton sat beside her, knitting, and from time to time fixing her
eyes upon the face of the invalid.
It may seem strange that Lucette should choose such a time and such a
place to indulge in music, though her voice was marvellously sweet and
had been cultivated to a degree rare in those days, and though people
who have sweet voices, well cultivated, and, moreover, the love, the
spirit, the inspiration of music in them, are fond of breaking forth
into song at very unseasonable times.
But, as it happened, it was not an unseasonable time, as Lucette herself
explained to Clement Tournon. When she turned her head, after her song
had ended, to take up her embroidery-frame, she saw the old syndic
standing in the doorway, looking somewhat surprised to hear her voice
then and there, but perfectly quiet and still. Without a word, she rose
and noiselessly approached the door, saying, in a very low voice, "He is
better. He has been speaking sensibly; but he grew drowsy after a moment
and fell asleep quite calmly, murmuring, 'Sing to me, mother; sing to
me,'--as if he did not well know where he was. So I thought it best to
humor him."
"You did right, my child," replied the syndic, putting his hand upon her
head, round which the light-brown hair with golden gleams upon it was
wound in many a long, silky tress. "The doctor is below: I hear his step
coming along the passage."
Why all doctors should have creaking shoes I never could divine; but it
is clearly an idiosyncrasy. They cannot help it. Perhaps the leather
gets affected by the close air of sick men's chambers; perhaps it
becomes imbued with sighs and groans,--a novel sort of tanning, but one
well calculated to give a creaking sound; or perhaps the doctors
themselves carry so far the necessary precaution of warming their
nethermost coverings that the material becomes too dry and cries out for
very thirst.
However that may be,--and I will not venture to decide the
question,--Dr. Cavillac's shoes did creak most lamentably; but they had
no effect upon the slumber of the poor invalid.
The doctor, the syndic, and Lucette spoke together for a few moments at
the door; but Cavillac did not go in. It is likely that he was conscious
of noisy feet. "It is critical," he said: "do not disturb him for the
world; let him sleep as long as he will. Let him be well watched; and,
when he wakes, speak low and gently to him; give him a few spoonfuls of
good old wine, (for he will be as weak as a child,) and then let me
know. You had better watch, my pretty Lucette, for there is no such good
nurse as a young girl with a kind heart,--except an old woman who does
not drink; and she is apt to have the rheumatism."
"But, doctor, Lucette must have repose, and these sleeps sometimes last
very long," said Clement Tournon. "I must not; I am bound not to let
fatigue affect her own health."
"I am not the least tired, dear father," said Lucette, with a bright
look. "His first sensible word did me more good than a whole night's
sleep. Do you think, doctor, that he will wake in his right mind again?"
"Certainly, my dear," answered the other. "I am sure he will; but his
recovery may be slow and will require much care."
"Then I will watch till he does wake," answered the beautiful young
girl. "I will watch as hopefully as ever Egyptian did to hear the
morning voice of Memnon."
"Listen to the little pagan!" said Cavillac, with a smile. "But I will
tell you a better plan, my child. He certainly will not wake for some
hours. You may see that by his great paleness. You go and lie down for a
short time; then let Marton call you. Come with me, syndic: I wish to
speak with you." And he drew the old man to the top of the stairs.
"Have you heard," he said, "that the cardinal has sent down a thousand
men to complete the lines round about us? This is growing serious."
"It is indeed!" said Clement Tournon, with a very sad look; "and those
rash men, either from obstinacy and over-confidence, or jealousy and
perhaps treachery, rejected yesterday the offer of succor from England,
and the fleet has sailed away."
"We should have had a hospital for fools long ago," said Cavillac. "It
is the great want of the city. But there are other things to be attended
to now. Send out everywhere for stores, my good friend, if you spend the
last livre of the city money. Depend upon it, this cardinal will try to
starve us out."
"He cannot do that while our port is open," answered the syndic.
"How long will it be open?" asked the physician, with a very meaning
look. "I have heard a whisper, my friend, that he will find means to
close it, either by a fleet from all the neighboring ports, or in some
other way. Look to it; look to it. There is less time to spare than the
men of Rochelle fancy."
Thus saying, he left Clement Tournon meditating in no very hopeful mood
over the state of the city, and the prospect, clear as a picture to his
calm reasoning eye, of all those horrors that were but too soon to fall
upon unhappy Rochelle. The house soon fell into profound silence: the
hours of labor were over, the sounds of hammer, tongs, and file were
still, and in about an hour Clement Tournon took his place by Edward
Langdale's bedside, sending good old Marton to seek some repose herself.
Twilight faded away into darkness; a little silver lamp was trimmed and
shaded in the corner of the chamber, and two or three hours passed in
silence, the good old man nodding from time to time, but never giving
way to sleep.
At length the light step of Lucette was heard in the deep stillness,--it
would not have been heard had there been the buzzing of a fly,--and,
approaching the bed, she gazed and listened.
"He lies sleeping sweetly," she said to the old man. "How differently he
breathes now! I can hardly hear him. Marton will be here in a minute.
Leave him to us, father, and take some rest yourself."
"As soon as she comes," answered the syndic. "What is the hour?"
"The great clock has just struck one," answered Lucette.
"I was drowsy, and did not hear it," said the syndic. "Have the wine
near, Lucette, and give him a spoonful at once when he wakes."
He made a movement toward the other side of the room as he spoke, and
Lucette took his place in the large chair; but hardly was she seated
when a voice was heard from the bed which made her start. "Where am I?"
asked Edward Langdale: "what has happened to me?"
"You are with dear friends," replied the sweet voice of Lucette at once.
"You have met with a little accident, but you are recovering fast. Here;
take a spoonful of wine. The doctor orders it."
"I will take any thing you give me," said the lad, "for I feel very
weak."
"Hush! silence! silence!" said Lucette, in a low but cheerful tone: "you
are to keep quite quiet, and take some wine from time to time, and try
to sleep again. To-morrow you will be quite well, I doubt not."
So saying, she poured the wine quietly between his lips; but the poor
lad could not refrain from saying, "That is very nice; and you are very
kind."
It is probable he would have added "and very beautiful," if he could
have descried in the dim light more than the faint outline of that fair
face and form; but Lucette replied, "I shall think you very _unkind_ if
you say one word more, except to ask for what you want."
"You understand it better than I do, Lucette, I see," said the old
syndic, in a whisper. "Woman, woman! for such tasks no hands are like
hers! But here comes Marton, and I will leave you."
The youth gazed after him as he departed, and looked at Marton curiously
as she moved slowly about the room; but his eyes found something more
satisfactory in the form of Lucette, although he could distinguish
little except that there was something graceful and more of his own age
before him, while from time to time she poured the wine between his
lips. He was feeble, however, and inclined to sleep; and before good Dr.
Cavillac, roused out of his bed, came to visit him, his eyes were again
closed, and he had relapsed into slumber.
It is one of the strange but frequent results of disease or of accident
of any kind which affects the brain, to blot out, as it were, from
memory all the events which have taken place within a certain preceding
period. It is sometimes a long, sometimes a short, period, according to
circumstances not very easily reduced to any rule. I have known a man
lose a language with which he had been for years familiar, and remember
one which he had long forgotten. I have known memory acutely distinct in
regard to events which had occurred a month or two before, and a perfect
blank as to those more recent.
Edward Langdale recollected nothing after a certain period, when he had
sped over from the town of Antwerp to London, bearing intelligence from
the Lord Montagu to the Duke of Buckingham, although he had perfectly
recovered his senses and some degree of strength, on the day following
that night when the delirium first left him. By degrees, however,
confused images of after-things began to present themselves: his voyage
from Portsmouth, the storms which had baffled and delayed his course,
even the approach to Rochelle, came back indistinctly. It only wanted,
in fact, the ringing of the bell to cause the curtain of oblivion to
rise, and the whole scene of the past to be revealed before the eyes of
memory.
There is nothing in the physical world at all like the sudden flash of
illumination carried along the many links which bind event to event in a
chain almost invisible, except the operation of the electric telegraph.
One touch applied, establishing the connection by the smallest possible
point, and thought--living thought--flashes on to its object, setting at
nought time and space and obstacle.
The connecting touch in the case of Master Ned was destined to be the
sudden appearance in his chamber of our friend Pierrot, who came in both
to see his young new master and to speak with good Clement Tournon. The
syndic held up his finger to the man as he entered, as a warning not to
trouble the young gentleman with speech, for the lad was still extremely
weak and could hardly turn in his bed. But the moment Edward Langdale
beheld him, he carried his hand suddenly to his head, saying, "Pierrot
la Grange! Pierrot la Grange! I remember it all now. Good Heaven! and I
have been lying here so long--God knows how long--and forgetting the
message to Clement Tournon! I must get up and seek him. Pierrot, get me
my clothes. I must get up."
"Lie still! lie still!" said the old syndic: "Clement Tournon is here,
my young friend. I am he. But we can have no talk now, for the physician
says you must still remain quite quiet and without agitation of any
kind."
"If you be Clement Tournon," answered the youth, "it will agitate me
more to be silent than to speak; but speak I must, if I die. Come
hither, nearer, I pray you, sir. Bend down your head. Do you remember
certain pendants of diamonds and the man you made them for? If so, give
his name in a low voice."
"The most gracious Duke of Buckingham," said the syndic, in a whisper.
"Then he bids me tell you," said Master Ned, "that his brother-in-law,
the Earl of Denbigh, will be here in three days with a puissant fleet,
and he begs you to prepare the minds of the citizens to give him a
worthy reception, for he hears you are somewhat divided here. I have
more to say; but that is the burden of it all. Pray lose no time. Good
Heavens! three days! How long have I been here?"
Clement Tournon's face assumed an expression of deep and even painful
thought for one moment; but he replied, in a calm, well-assured tone,
"Give yourself no uneasiness, my son. The whole has been settled,
notwithstanding the accident that happened to you. We will talk about
these matters more to-morrow. At present I must leave you, for I have
business of importance to transact; but Marton will tend you carefully,
and Lucette will come and sing to you, if you like it."
Do not let us pause upon the convalescence of our young friend; but for
the present at least let us follow Clement Tournon's movements, which
had some results at an after-period. He took his course straight to the
city prison, into the dark mysteries of which we need not pry.
Every prison was in those days hideous, and this, like others, had its
dungeons and cells, one hour's tenancy of which was a punishment hardly
merited by aught but murder. There was, moreover, what we should now
call a justice-room in the jail,--at least, a place where justice or
injustice was administered, according to the character of the
functionary who presided.
Here Clement Tournon seated himself by the side of one of the other
magistrates of the town, and Tom the sailor was brought before them. He
was followed by one of his companions, and by the captain of the little
vessel, which still lay in the port, while the two tradesmen who had
witnessed the assault were likewise present. The faces of the two
magistrates were grave and even stern, and probably had Master Tom shown
a swaggering and insolent air, such as he not unfrequently bore, they
might have dealt hardly with him. But Tom was one of those men whom we
not unfrequently meet with, and though apt to bully and even to fight
when he thought there was some advantage on his side, he was easily
cowed and depressed when he knew or believed that there were odds, or
even equality, on the other side. Besides, he had now been kept for
several days in what modern writers would call a loathsome cell, fed
upon bread and water, and had no companion but solitude. Now, beef and
good company are great promoters of swagger, and the absence of both had
terribly reduced Tom's usual tone. He was indeed inclined to whimper,
pleaded that he and Master Ned had quarrelled on board ship, that Ned
had attempted to draw sword upon him, and that he himself had been
drinking when he struck the blow. These excuses availed him little with
the magistrates; and, strange to say, he found no support either from
his captain or the man who had been his companion. The latter bore
testimony that when he first laid hands on the lad's shoulder he told
him "that he had got him safe on shore now, and would thrash him
soundly;" and the captain merely said, "I trust your honors will
liberate this man and put him in my hands. I warned him more than once
on the voyage to let the young gentleman alone. I suspect he has done
more mischief than he knows; and if you give him up to me I will put him
in irons till I get home, and then make him over to those who will deal
with him severely enough."
"The young gentleman is in a fair way of recovery," replied the syndic,
who understood the language in which the skipper spoke; "but a serious
offence has been committed in the streets of the city of Rochelle; and
we should certainly punish this man ourselves were it not for the honor
and respect which we bear the King of England. Much mischief he
certainly has done,--as those who sent Master Edward Langdale hither
will probably know by this time. But, captain, if you demand the
prisoner in the name of King Charles, and promise to convey full
intelligence of all that has occurred to those who are best qualified to
judge of the case, and moreover to give this man up to them, I will
speak with my friend here, who understands no English, but who probably
will agree with me that our reverence for your sovereign requires us to
follow your suggestion."
The captain willingly promised all that was demanded, and sealed his
assurance with an oath; and the prisoner was then placed in his custody.
"And now, captain, when do you set sail?" asked Clement Tournon. "The
wind is now fair, and the weather fine."
"I cannot go before Master Ned tells me," said the captain. "My cutter
is to be at his orders till he has done with her."
"I know not that he can yet write even his name," said the syndic; "but
you can come up to my house, where he now lies, this evening, and if the
physician permits he can speak with you."
"See what you have done, you d----d scoundrel!" said the captain,
turning sharply toward Tom. "I will be up at your house, sir, by five,
and hope the young gentleman will let me go, for I am tired of this
voyage."
The following morning, at daybreak, the little craft got under way,
bearing a letter in Clement Tournon's hand; and Edward Langdale remained
alone in France.