THE MIDNIGHT RAID.
FOR some days—I think about ten—after the bishop's visitation
everything went on in the usual train.
On one of these days, the superior received a letter from the bishop,
which was speedily communicated to the whole family. His greatness
wrote that having had our title and charter investigated by the proper
authorities, he had discovered that not only was our community fully
entitled to all the land and property that it held, but that it had an
undoubted right to some hundreds of acres of very fertile meadow land,
lying half a mile away, and at present occupied by the Count de Crequi.
"So we shall get back all that beautiful pasture where the grass grows
so early," said Sister Eustachie, the oldest person in the house. "I
remember, children, when ye had twenty-five cows in that meadow. Such
butter and cheese as we made—but we had a great family then. Well, I
hope I may see those lands restored to our holy patrimony."
"I would like to hope so too, sister, but I doubt it!" said Mother
Prudentia. "The wolf of Crequi does not let go his prey so easily. For
myself, I shall be thankful if we are left to go quietly on our way, as
we are doing at present."
I have never said anything about our priest and confessor. He was a
middle-aged man, looking old from his white hair, but very hale and
active. He lived by himself in a little house in the orchard, from
which a sort of arbor, covered with vines, led to the church. He was a
kind-hearted, easy-going man, very charitable and self-denying, save in
the matter of snuff, of which he took a great deal. He was very fond of
his garden, in which he worked early and late.
Amabel and I liked him because he spoke English very well, having once
been confessor to a noble family in England. Only for him, I don't know
but we should have forgotten our mother tongue entirely; but he used
to exercise us in it, making us read to him sometimes, in an English
Thomas-à-Kempis he had, sometimes in an English translation from the
Vulgate. Oh! How I used to wish I could get that book into my own
hands; but the good father guarded it jealously, not allowing us even
to turn over a leaf for ourselves. We used to read Psalms and bits of
the Gospels, and Old Testament stories, which he picked out for us.
I remember reading in this way about the widow's son of Nain. When I
had finished, the priest paused a moment, and then said, reverently:
"My Lucy, do you think of what you read?"
"Yes, my father; I think of it a great deal," I answered, which was
quite true.
"But do you make it real to you? Think, for instance, about this story
which we have just finished. Think how that poor mother must have
dreaded the return to her lonely house; the sitting down to her lonely
table, and living on day after day without her son."
"And then how different it all was from what she expected!" said
Amabel, musingly. "I should think she would hardly have known how to
believe it. She must have felt as if his sickness and death were all a
dream."
"And the holy Magdalene after her brother was restored!" said I. (Roman
Catholics believe that Mary Magdalene, and the woman who was a sinner,
who anointed our Lord's feet, were one and the same person, though
there seems to us little or no ground in the scripture for such an
idea.) "They were really people, were they not, and felt as we should
do?"
"Exactly, my daughter. That is what I wish you to consider. People
lose half the benefit of the examples of the holy saints and martyrs,
because they do not consider them to have been of the same flesh and
blood as themselves."
I have been obliged to the good father all my life for this idea, and
especially since I have myself had the instructing of children in the
truths of religion. But this is by the way.
Besides being a famous gardener, Father Brousseau had a competent
knowledge of surgery and medicine, and made himself very useful in
prescribing for the poor people round us. His medicines were generally
such as our pharmacy at the convent could provide, especially a bitter
cordial, made of orange peel, chamomile, and some of the aromatic herbs
with which that country abounds. I have the recipe for this cordial,
which I have helped to distil by the gallon. It is excellent for ague
and consumption.
It was this medical knowledge of our confessor's which made him a
welcome visitor at the Chateau de Crequi, even after the count had
quarrelled with our superior. Madame de Crequi was a confirmed invalid,
suffering terrible pain and distress at times, from some trouble in her
breast. She had had endless doctors who had done her no good but rather
harm, and in her despair, hearing of our confessor's gifts in that
line, she sent for him. He was, happily, able greatly to alleviate her
present suffering, though he told her frankly that there was no cure
possible; and he had thus made the poor lady his friend. He had also
cured the count's chaplain from a fever which threatened his life.
One day, it happened that the priest was sent for in great haste to see
a favorite maid of the countess, who was taken suddenly and violently
ill. (I learned all this long afterward, for of course I was not told
it at the time.) He returned in the afternoon, and we saw him going in
a great hurry to the superior's apartment.
In about half an hour, Mother Prudentia came out, looking a good deal
excited, and summoned the whole family to a conference. It was in
recreation time, I remember, and we were almost all busy in capturing
a vagrant brood of half-grown chickens, which had escaped from their
proper quarters, as it seemed, for the express purpose of scratching up
a newly planted bed of salad. We were in a great frolic over the chase,
for nuns are like children in their hours of recreation—a little thing
serves to amuse them. It was therefore with considerable surprise that
we obeyed the summons to the superior's presence.
We found the lady pale and evidently much disturbed, though she
preserved her usual calmness of voice and demeanor. In a few words, she
told us of the danger that was impending over us. She had received sure
intelligence that the convent was to be attacked that very night by a
band of robbers, pillaged and perhaps burned to the ground.
Even the strict habits of convent discipline could not repress a
universal cry of dismay from the sisterhood; but I must say, that after
the first alarm, they all behaved wonderfully well. The Reverend Mother
raised her hand to impose silence, and was at once obeyed.
"We have no means of defending ourselves, and no time to send to the
Bishop for assistance before our foes will be upon us!" said she. "I
have taken council with our Reverend Father, and he agrees with me,
that our only chance of safety is, to take refuge in the vaults under
the old part of the house."
She paused a moment, and some of the sisters looked at each other as if
the prospect of spending the night in the vaults was almost as dreadful
as that of the robbers themselves.
"The buildings above these vaults are solid and there is little in them
to burn," continued the Superior. "So that even should the house be set
on fire, we may hope to escape—and the caverns themselves are such,
that should the entrance to them be discovered, no one could find our
hiding place without the clue; that clue is known at present only to
Mother Assistant and myself. Let us then hasten to convey to this place
of safety all our most precious treasures, all the sacred vessels and
ornaments; and enough of food and lights to serve us if needful for
several days; of water there is an abundant supply. Let us all be calm
and collected, and let each one obey orders implicitly and without any
questions."
She then allotted to each her part. Sister Lazarus with two assistants
were to prepare and carry to a certain place a supply of such
provisions as would keep the best, and afford the most nourishment in
a small compass. I remember, in the midst of all our consternation,
smiling at the lamentations of the good sister, over certain delicious
creams which had been prepared for the supper-table—that being a feast
day.
"But the robbers shall not have them at any rate!" said she with
decision. "Here pussy!" And she set down the dish of cream which she
held, and which the kitchen cat and her young family lapped up with
great satisfaction and much purring.
"Poor little dears, they little know what is before them!" said Sister
Lazarus, wiping the tears from her eyes, as she regarded the kittens,
which having finished their feast, were licking the stray drops from
each other's paws and noses. "I mean to shut them all out in the garden
and that will give them a chance. Take care and not shake that basket,
Sister! There are some bottles of wine in it and a jug of milk for the
children; here, little ones, put these cakes in your pockets."
Grow as we might, we were still the children to dear Sister Lazarus.
The Church was not to be dismantled till after dark, that no suspicions
need be awakened. I could not but wonder whether there were any spies
among the few peasants who came to vespers. I could not but notice an
old woman; she was very specially devout, and when the service was
ended, she approached Mother Bursar and whiningly begged a night's
lodging.
"I do not think we can keep you on account of the dangerous infectious
fever that we have in the house!" said Mother Bursar, telling this
outrageous fib doubtless with a clean conscience, as it was for the
good of the Church. "But if you choose to risk it, I will ask Mother
Superior."
But the old woman had no mind for a lodging under such circumstances
and took herself off, closely watched by Mother Bursar from the church
door.
"That is an odd-looking woman!" said I. "See how strongly she walks
now, though she pretended to be so feeble."
"She is no more a woman than you are!" said Mother Bursar indignantly.
"It is that very Jean Dôle to whom I gave a warm pair of hose only
last winter. Did I not know him on the instant? I almost wish I had
given him a lodging, and locked him up in the Knight's tower; but it is
better as it is. Now my children we must work fast—there is no time to
lose! Here, Lucille, help me fold these cloths."
"But Jean Dôle is in the employ of the Count!" said I, working while I
talked and finding, despite the imminent danger, a certain enjoyment in
the bustle. "Can he be, also, in the employ of the robbers?"
"Robbers!" said Mother Bursar contemptuously. "We know where the
robbers come from. Take care, child, fold that straight. Perhaps they
will find themselves outwitted after all."
By nine o'clock, the principal treasures of the Church—the great silver
vases, the candlesticks, and images, and so forth, were all removed
to the lower vestibule; and carried from thence to safe hiding places
known to Mother Superior and Mother Prudentia.
Then the sisters were assembled in the community-room, for what we all
felt might be the last time. Mother Superior addressed a few words to
us, exhorting us to firmness, constancy, and trust, and we all kissed
her hand and each other. The priest entered, bearing the host, in its
magnificent receptacle, blazing with jewels, and we all prostrated
ourselves before it. Then he passed out of the room, and we followed in
order as in an ordinary procession; we went through the upper hall and
descended the great stairs to the lower floor.
Then instead of seeking the door by which Amabel and myself had
descended to the vaults, we went down to the basement by a staircase of
which I had never, till then, known the existence. So true it is, as I
have said before, that one may live in a convent a long time, yes, even
for many years, and yet know very little about it. We passed through
a long hall, with doors opening here and there, and then there was a
pause, while Mother Prudentia unlocked and opened a massive door, the
existence of which I should never have suspected, for it looked exactly
like a piece of the wall. Through this we passed one by one, and it was
then closed after us.
The lights were now trimmed anew and lanterns distributed among us. We
were warned to follow exactly, and not to look either to right or left,
but to keep our eyes fixed on our leader. Why, I don't know, unless
that our minds might not be distracted by the sight of the labyrinth
we were threading. At last we reached the end of our dismal journey.
We found ourselves in a kind of suite of apartments, drier and more
commodious than could have been expected in such a place. There must
have been some communication with the outer world, for the air, though
damp and chill, was not foul nor oppressive.
In the first vault were stored our provisions, clothes, and other such
matters which we had saved. In the next were beds hastily made of
straw mattresses and all the warm coverings that could be mustered. A
little side-room was fitted up as a chapel, with an altar, on which was
placed the usual furniture, while a small lamp hung before it. On this
altar the priest deposited the host. It was time for our last evening
service, and we went through it as usual, though it must be confessed
that some of the sweet voices quivered a little as they chanted the
responses. It was not till now that we observed one of our number to be
missing.
"Where is Sister Filomena?" asked two or three voices.
"She is in a place of safety, or so I trust," answered the Superior
calmly. "Pray for her, my sisters."
We took this for a hint that we were to ask no more questions, but
we wondered all the more. Sister Filomena was the one of whom I have
spoken before as being so very ugly. She was tall and boney, with
particularly large hands and feet, and a masculine walk. She had a
decided beard, and owing to some disease, I suppose, her face, and
particularly her nose, were as red as an old toper's. She was a
widow of some years standing when she took the vows, and before her
conversion, she had lived much in the gay world of Toulon, where,
despite her ugliness, she had been a great favorite, and had maintained
a very popular salon.
Sister Lazarus had caused to be transported to the vault a little
earthen-ware furnace for charcoal, such as are much used in France.
This she lighted, and served us each with a famous cup of chocolate—a
luxury never enjoyed by us except on very grand feast days. I think
smells are more powerful in awakening old associations than anything
else. The smell of a fresh cup of chocolate always brings that scene
vividly before me—the dimly-burning shaded lights, which made our pale
faces doubly ghastly in appearance—the damp walls of whitish grey
rock—the little chapel with its ornaments glittering as the tapers
flared a little—I can see all this, and hear the soft drop and splash
of water, regular almost as the ticking of a clock, which fell on our
ears, and now and then a curious moaning sound coming no one knew from
whence.
"What is that?" said one of the sisters rather fearfully, as a louder
moan than usual made itself felt rather than heard.
"It is a sound always heard in these vaults," replied the Superior.
"I used to hear in my day that it was the spirits of the poor souls
that the old heathen imprisoned here and left to starve," said Sister
Eustachie, who was very old and childish.
"You don't think it is that, do you, Reverend Mother?" asked one of the
nuns rather timidly.
"No, my child, I think it is only the wind which finds entrance
somewhere and cannot get out again, or some escape of imprisoned gas
from the earth. Whatever it may be, it is but a sound," answered the
Superior. "Let me beg of you, not to disturb your minds with idle
fears. Let all lie down and rest while it is possible. Mother Assistant
and myself will watch before the Holy Sacrament."
I had no wish to lie down, nor, as I think, had any of the others, but
in a convent, one learns to obey without a word—not so bad a lesson
either, where young persons are concerned. So we lay down on our straw
beds and covered ourselves as warmly as we could, and, despite their
fears, I heard some of the nuns snoring in five minutes' time.
I thought I should never go to sleep, but the sound of the falling
water, the softly murmuring voices of the priest and the two mothers
saying the litanies, and the gentle swaying of the suspended lamp
lulled me at last into a slumber. I dreamed that I was trying to reach
something from the upper shelf of a certain dark storeroom cupboard,
when some one violently slammed the door on me. The noise awoke me with
a start.
All the sisters were on their feet in an instant, but the gesture of
the abbess imposed silence, and not a word was said.
We heard a shout of—"Open in the king's name—" And then a furious
attack upon the great gate which led from the outer court into the
garden. It sounded frightfully near. In a moment it fell, and we could
hear the footsteps of our enemies, as it seemed, over our heads. They
may have been so for ought I know.
We were all on our knees by this time before the little altar—some on
their faces. Only the Superior stood erect and calm.
The noise partially died away—I suppose while the ruffians were
searching for us. Then they gathered again in the court with every
expression of anger and disappointment. We could hear every word that
was said. They had evidently pushed off the cover of the old well, and
one of them dropped a great stone into it. The noise which resounded
through the vaults was awful beyond description.
"Our birds are flown!" said a voice. "And they have stripped their nest
pretty completely."
"They are not flown—they have only gone to earth!" said another voice,
which I thought I had heard before. "Follow me, and we will soon have
them out."
In a few minutes we heard the noise of a door forced, and heavy, armed
heels noisily descending. The sisters gathered closer around the
superior.
"They have found the entrance under the great stairs," said the
superior. "Keep perfectly still, and fear nothing, but pray for the
souls of our enemies. They do but rush on their own destruction."
Mother Prudentia whispered a few words to the superior, and, receiving
a nod in return, took up a lantern and glided away so suddenly that,
though I was watching eagerly, I could not have told for my life which
way she went.
There was evidently a good deal of hesitation among the enemy, for I
heard the same voice proclaim loudly: "A purse of gold for the one who
unearths the old cats. There! I see the gleam of a lantern even now."
It could have been but two or three minutes, before we heard a sudden
splash, followed in a second by another and a horrible scream of mortal
anguish, which echoed and re-echoed as if a hundred demons were mocking
the drowning wretches. There was one half-strangled cry for help—a
rush—and then all was still for a few minutes, till Mother Prudentia
returned to us with her lantern, and her shoes covered with mud and
slime.
"Two of them have fallen in—the only two who ventured to follow me!"
said she. "I stepped aside, thinking that they would stop when they
lost sight of me, but I suppose the gleam on the water deceived them.
Poor wretches!"
There was an interval of silence, during which we all softly recited
the prayer for souls in extremis.
"What are they doing now?" asked one of our number.
"They are setting fire to the buildings. Do you not smell the smoke?"
said the priest. "But we have little to fear, even in that case. A
storm has been gathering all day and is about to burst. Do you not hear
the thunder? 'The Lord shall fight for us, and we will hold our peace.'"
I had heard what sounded like thunder two or three times, but there
were so many noises that I had taken little heed to it. Now, however,
came a tremendous crash, and a faint gleam of lightning showed what I
had before suspected—that we were near some place which opened to the
air—perhaps to the old well in the court, which would account for our
hearing so plainly.
The rush of rain which followed must have at once extinguished the
fires, and no doubt drove our enemies into the buildings for shelter.
For a time, we heard nothing but the tremendous thunder and the rain.
Then I began to be sensible of another sound, unlike anything, unless
it be the rushing of a stream swollen by a torrent.
"What is that?" asked some one.
"Hush!" said the priest, imperatively.
We all listened. The sounds grew louder.
"They have digged a pit, and fallen into the midst of it themselves!"
said the priest exultingly. "'In the snare that they laid privily is
their foot taken.' Our friends have arrived, and we are saved."
In effect, we heard in a moment, a tremendous outcry, many shots
fired, and other sounds which told us that a combat was going on. The
tumult died away by degrees, but was renewed once or twice, as though
the robbers were making a desperate defense. There was an interval of
silence, and then a manly, cheerful voice called aloud, as it seemed,
from the stairs:
"The reverend mothers and sisters may now come from their hiding places
without fear. Their enemies are all prisoners in the hands of the
king's troops. Laudate dominium."
I suppose this Latin phrase was a kind of watchword to let our
superiors know that all was right. Anxious as we all were to escape
from our prison, there was no haste. We arranged our dresses as
decently as possible, for in a convent one learns to dress without the
help of a mirror; the priest took up the Host, and, in procession as we
descended, we emerged to the light of day—for it was now morning, and
the sky was brightening toward sunrise. We found the court occupied by
a company of soldiers, with a young officer in command, keeping guard
over a number of prisoners. Several dead bodies were stretched out on
the stones, and two or three wounded wretches were groaning among them.
Officers and men saluted reverently as the Host was borne past them,
and all but those necessary to guard the prisoners, followed into the
church. We took our places in the choir, and mass was said at the
despoiled altar. Then, measures were taken for the care of the wounded.
Two expired almost immediately, in the very act of confession; the
other lingered a few days, and died, so Sister Baptista told me, very
humble and penitent.
But what a sad sight was our poor house! Windows were dashed to pieces,
furniture broken and destroyed in mere wantonness. Our beautiful garden
was a trampled waste—even the great rose bush said to have been planted
by the hands of Mother Angelique herself, and one of our greatest
treasures, was hacked off at the roots.
"The wretches—the wicked sacrilegious villains!" exclaimed Sister
Lazarus, bursting into tears as she came on the body of her favorite
cat, and saw the poor kittens trying in vain to attract their mother's
notice. "I can't help it, if it is wicked—I am glad they fell into the
pool—I hope it was the very one that killed my cat—our cat I mean,"
added the sister, correcting herself, for in a convent it is a great
sin to say that any thing is mine. "I made an act of forgiveness when I
found my beautiful stew-pans all dashed to pieces, but such a sight as
this is too much."
So saying she gathered the bereaved little kittens into her apron and
carried them off to comfort them as she best could. One of our cows had
been shot, as it seemed, in sheer wantonness; the other being shut in a
cow-house at the bottom of the orchard had escaped.
It was only natural that a few tears should be shed over the
destruction of pet plants and fowls and the general desolation, but
there was no giving way to idle sorrow. All set to work with a will to
put things in the best order possible, and so industrious were we, that
by the next day when the bishop arrived, things had assumed something
of their usual aspect.
But no pains of ours could restore vines and flowers, or set up the
ruined fountain, or mend the beautiful and wonderful stained glass,
whose fragments strewed the court, or bring our poor old dog and cow to
life. The bishop brought with him a magistrate and other officers, and
there was a great examination and perquisition about the affair, but I
don't know how it was—the thing was hushed up after a while and nothing
was done. Only the bishop paid two or three visits, and finally it was
made known among us that before cold weather came, the community would
be moved to a smaller but much more comfortable and secure house near
Toulon.
I must not forget to say that Sister Filomena arrived in the train of
the bishop, riding all by herself in a litter, and dressed in a brand
new robe of quite another fashion from ours. We were surprised enough
to see her, and still more to hear that it was she who had carried the
news of our danger to Toulon.
"That is the advantage of being ugly you see, my sisters," said the
good nun, laughing, as we pressed around to listen to her adventures.
"In Marie's red petticoat and grey jacket, and mounted on the good
father's mule, nobody thought me anything but a peasant carrying fowls
to market. I had the good luck to meet, the very first thing, an Abbè
whom I used to know when I was in the world. I could think of no better
way than to make myself known to him, and he took me directly to the
bishop's palace, where I told my story. His housekeeper found me some
clothes, and I went at once to the Ursuline Convent, where they treated
me like a princess, but you may guess I did not sleep for thinking of
your danger, and wondering whether the soldiers would arrive in time."
"But why did not Father Brousseau go himself?" asked some one.
"What a wise question! Because they would have been on the watch for
him, and would have known him at once; but no one suspected me."
"It was a dreadful thing to do!" said Sister Baptista. "Of course it
was very good in you to sacrifice yourself, but I do think it was
shocking."
"I suppose it was," said Sister Filomena; "and the worst of it is, I am
afraid I enjoyed it after all."
That very day, we heard that the nephew and heir of the Count de
Crequi with an attendant had fallen from the rocks while fishing, and
that their bodies had been swept away by the waves and never found.
A requiem was said for them in the church with all due solemnity, at
which, however, none of the family were present. For my own part,
remembering the voice I had heard and that fearful plunge into the
water, I have little doubt that the bones of the young count and his
follower lie at this moment under the black and slimy waters of that
dreadful pool.
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