exactly the person she would have selected for Fanny; but he was the
only being for whom she had ever evinced a predilection; and, besides,
the danger of a misalliance which threatened her own son, rendered her
eager to build an insurmountable wall between him and the object of his
affections. Thus Fanny enjoyed the heart-gladdening pride of hearing her
choice applauded and praised by the person she most respected and loved
in the world. As yet, however, love had been covert; the soul but not
the apparent body of their intercourse. Louis was kept in awe by this
high-minded girl, and Fanny had not yet learned her own secret. It was
Henry who made the discovery for them;—Henry, who, with all the
impetuosity of his vivacious character, contrived a thousand ways to
come between them, who, stung by jealousy to injustice, reviled Louis
for his ruin, his poverty, his opinions, and brought the spirit of
dissension to disquiet a mind entirely bent, as she imagined, on holy
and pure thoughts.
Under this clash of passion, the action of the drama rapidly developed
itself, and, for nearly a year, a variety of scenes were acted among
these secluded mountains of no interest save to the parties themselves,
but to them fateful and engrossing. Louis and Fanny exchanged vows; but
that sufficed not. Fanny insisted on the right of treating with uniform
kindness the son of her best friend, in spite of his injustice and
insolence. The young men were often, during the rural festivals, brought
into angry collision. Fanny was the peacemaker: but a woman is the worst
possible mediator between her rival lovers. Henry was sometimes
irritated to complain to his father of Louis’ presumption. The spirit of
the French Revolution then awakening, rendered a peasant’s assumptions
peculiarly grating; and it required Madame de Marville’s impartial
gentleness to prevent Fanny’s betrothed, as now he was almost
considered, from being further oppressed.
At length it was decided that Henry should absent himself for a time,
and visit Paris. He was enraged in the extreme by what he called his
banishment. Noble and generous as he naturally was, love was the tyrant
of his soul, and drove him almost to crime. He entered into a fierce
quarrel with his rival on the very eve of his departure: it ended in a
scene of violence and bloodshed. No great real harm was done; but
Monsieur de Marville, hitherto scarcely kept back from such a measure by
his wife, suddenly obtained an order for Louis (his father had died a
year before) to quit the territory within twelve hours. Fanny was
commanded, as she valued the favour of her friends, to give him up. The
young men were both gone before any intercession could avail; and that
kind of peace which resembles desolation took possession of the chateau.
Aware of the part she had taken in encouraging Fanny’s attachment to her
peasant-lover, Madame de Marville did not make herself a party to the
tyranny of her husband; she requested only of her protégée to defer any
decisive step, and not to quit her guardianship until the return of her
son, which was to take place the following year. Fanny consented to such
a delay, although in doing so she had to resist the angry
representations of her lover, who exacted that she should quit the roof
of his oppressors. It was galling to his proud spirit that she should
continue to receive benefits from them, and injurious to his love that
she should remain where his rival’s name was the constant theme of
discourse and the object of interest. Fanny in vain represented her debt
of gratitude, the absence of Henry, the impossibility that she could
feel any undue sentiment towards the young seigneur; not to hate him was
a crime in Louis’ eyes; yet how, in spite of his ill-conduct, could
Fanny hate her childhood’s playmate—her brother? His violent passions
excited to their utmost height—jealousy and the sense of impotent
indignation raging in his heart—Louis swore to revenge himself on the
Marvilles—to forget and to abhor his mistress!—his last words were a
malediction on them, and a violent denunciation of scorn upon her.
“It will all be well yet,” thought Fanny, as she strove to calm the
tumultuous and painful emotions to which his intemperate passion gave
rise. “Not only are storms the birth of the wild elements, but of the
heart of man, and we can oppose patience and fortitude alone to their
destructive violence. A year will pass—I shall quit the chateau; Louis
will acknowledge my truth, and retract his frightful words.”
She continued, therefore, to fulfil her duties cheerfully, not
permitting her thoughts to dwell on the idea, that, in spite of her
struggles, too painfully occupied her—the probability that Louis would
in the end renounce or forget her; but committing her cause to the
spirit of good, she trusted that its influence would in the end prevail.
She had, however, much to endure; for months passed, and no tidings
reached her of Louis. Often she felt sick at heart; often she became the
prey of the darkest despair; above all, her tender heart missed the fond
attentions of love, the bliss of knowing that she bestowed happiness,
and the unrestrained intercourse to which mutual affection had given
rise. She cherished hope as a duty, and faith in love, rather than in
her unjust and cruelly neglectful lover. It was a hard task, for she had
nowhere to turn for consolation or encouragement. Madame de Marville
marked with gladness the total separation between them. Now that the
danger that threatened her son was averted, she relented having been
influential in producing an attachment between Fanny and one whom she
deemed unworthy of her. She redoubled her kindness, and, in the true
Continental fashion, tried to get up a match between her and some one
among her many and more prosperous admirers. She failed, but did not
despair, till she saw the poor girl’s cheek grow pale and her vivacity
desert her, as month after month passed away, and the very name of Louis
appeared to be forgotten by all except herself.
The stirring and terrible events that took place at this time in France
added to Fanny’s distress of mind. She had been familiarized to the
discussion of the theories, now attempted to be put in practice, by the
conversations of Chaumont. As each fresh account brought information of
the guilty and sanguinary acts of men whose opinions were the same as
those of her lover, her fears on his account increased. In a few words I
shall hurry over this part of her story. Switzerland became agitated by
the same commotions as tore the near kingdom. The peasantry rose in
tumult; acts of violence and blood were committed; at first at a
distance from her retired valley, but gradually approaching its
precincts, until at last the tree of liberty was set up in the
neighbouring village. Monsieur de Marville was an aristocrat of the most
bigoted species. In vain was the danger represented to him, and the
unwarlike state of his retinue. He armed them—he hurried down—he came
unawares on the crowd who were proclaiming the triumph of liberty,
rather by feasting than force. On the first attack, they were dispersed,
and one or two among them were wounded; the pole they had gathered round
was uprooted, the emblematic cap trampled to the earth. The governor
returned victorious to his chateau.
This act of violence on his part seemed the match to fire a train of
organized resistance to his authority, of which none had dreamt before.
Strangers from other cantons thronged into the valley; rustic labours
were cast aside; popular assemblies were held, and the peasants
exercised in the use of arms. One was coming to place himself at their
head, it was said, who had been a party in the tumults at Geneva. Louis
Chaumont was coming—the champion of liberty, the sworn enemy of M. de
Marville. The influence of his presence soon became manifest. The
inhabitants of the chateau were besieged. If one ventured beyond a
certain limit he was assailed. It was the resolve of Louis that all
within its walls should surrender themselves to his mercy. What that
might be, the proud curl of his lip and the fire that glanced from his
dark eyes rendered scarcely problematic. Fanny would not believe the
worst of her lover, but Monsieur and Madame de Marville, no longer
restrained by any delicacy, spoke of the leveller in unmeasured terms of
abhorrence, comparing him to the monsters who then reigned in France,
while the danger they incurred through him added a bitter sting to their
words. The peril grew each day; famine began to make its appearance in
the chateau; while the intelligence which some of the more friendly
peasants brought was indicative of preparations for a regular attack of
the most formidable nature. A summons at last came from the insurgents.
They were resolved to destroy the emblem of their slavery—the feudal
halls of their tyrants. They declared their intention of firing the
chateau the next day, and called on all within to deliver themselves up,
if they would not be buried in its ruins. They offered their lives and
free leave to depart to all, save the governor himself, who must place
himself unconditionally at the mercy of their leader. “The wretch,”
exclaimed his lady, “who thirsts for your blood! Fly! if there is yet
time for flight; we, you see, are safe. Fly! nor suffer these cruel
dastards to boast of having murdered you.”
M. de Marville yielded to these entreaties and representations. He had
sent for a military force to aid him—it had been denied. He saw that he
himself, as the detested person, was the cause of danger to his family.
It was therefore agreed that he should seek a châlet situated on a
mountain ten leagues distant, where he might lie concealed till his
family joined him. Accordingly, in a base disguise, he quitted at
midnight the walls he was unable to defend; a miserable night for the
unfortunate beings left behind. The coming day was to witness the
destruction of their home; and they, beggars in the world, were to
wander through the inhospitable mountains, till, with caution and
terror, they could unobserved reach the remote and miserable châlet, and
learn the fate of the unhappy fugitive. It was a sleepless night for
all. To add to Madame’s agony, she knew that her son’s life was in
danger in Paris—that he had been denounced—and, though yet untaken, his
escape was still uncertain. From the turret of the castle that, situated
high on a rock, commanded the valley below, she sat the livelong night
watching for every sound—fearful of some shout, some report of firearms,
which would announce the capture of her husband. It was September; the
nights were chill; pale and trembling, she saw day break over the hills.
Fanny had busied herself during these anxious hours by preparing for
their departure; the terrified domestics had already fled; she, the
lady, and the old lame gardener were all that remained. At dawn she
brought forth the mule, and harnessed him to the rude vehicle which was
to convey them to their place of refuge. Whatever was most valuable in
the chateau had already been sent away long before, or was secreted; a
few necessaries alone she provided. And now she ascended the turret
stairs, and stood before her protectress, announcing that all was ready,
and that they must depart. At this last moment, Madame de Marville
appeared deprived of strength; she strove to rise—she sank to the ground
in a fit. Forgetful of her deserted state, Fanny called aloud for help,
and then her heart beat wildly as a quick, youthful step was heard on
the stairs. Who could he be? would _he_ come to insult their
wretchedness—he, the author of their woe? The first glance changed the
object of her terror. Henry flew to his mother’s side, and, with broken
exclamations and agitated questions, demanded an explanation of what he
saw. He had fled for safety to the habitation of his parents—he found it
deserted; the first voice he heard was that of Fanny crying for help—the
first sight that presented itself was his mother, to all appearance
dead, lying on the floor of the turret. Her recovery was followed by
brief explanations, and a consultation of how his safety was to be
provided for. The name of Chaumont excited his bitterest execrations.
With a soldier’s haughty resolve, he was darting from the castle to meet
and to wreak vengeance on his rival. His mother threw herself at his
feet, clasping his knees, calling wildly on him not to desert her.
Fanny’s gentle, sweet voice was of more avail to calm his passion.
“Chevalier,” she said, “it is not thus that you must display your
courage or protect the helpless. To encounter yonder infuriated mob
would be to run on certain death; you must preserve yourself for your
family—you must have pity on your mother, who cannot survive you. Be
guided by me, I beseech you.”
Henry yielded to her voice, and a more reasonable arrangement took
place. The departure of Madame de Marville and Fanny was expected at the
village, and a pledge had been given that they should proceed
unmolested. But deeply had the insurgents sworn that if the governor or
his son (whose arrival in the chateau had been suspected) attempted to
escape with them, they should be immediately sacrificed to _justice_. No
disguise would suffice—the active observation of their enemies was
known. Every inhabitant of the castle had been numbered—the fate of each
ascertained, save that of the two most detested—the governor, whose
flight had not been discovered, and his son, whose arrival was so
unexpected and ill-timed. As still they consulted, a beat to arms was
heard in the valley below: it was the signal that the attack on the
empty castle walls would soon begin. There was no time for delay or
hesitation. Henry placed himself at the bottom of the charrette; straw
and a variety of articles were heaped upon him; the two women ascended
in trepidation; and the old gardener sat in front and held the reins.
In consequence of the disturbed state of the districts through which
they were to pass,—where the appearance of one of the upper classes
excited the fiercest enmity, and frightful insult, if not death, was
their sure welcome,—Madame and her friend assumed a peasant’s garb. And
thus they wound their way down the steep; the unhappy lady weeping
bitterly; Fanny, with tearless eyes, but with pale cheek and compressed
lips, gazing for the last time on the abode which had been her refuge
when, in helpless infancy, she was left an orphan—where kindness and
benevolence had waited on her, and where her days had passed in
innocence and peace. “And he drives us away!—him, whom I loved—whom I
love!—O misery!”
They reached the foot of the eminence on which the chateau was placed,
and proceeded along the road which led directly through the village.
With the approach of danger, vain regrets were exchanged for a lively
sense of fear in the bosom of the hapless mother, and for the exertion
of her courage and forethought in Fanny’s more energetic mind. They
passed a peasant or two, who uttered a malediction or imprecation on
them as they went; then groups of two or three, who were even more
violent in gesture and menace; when suddenly the sound of many steps
came on their ears, and at a turn of the road they met Chaumont with a
band of about twenty disciplined men.
“Fear not,” he said to Madame de Marville; “I will protect you from
danger till you are beyond the village.”
With a shriek, the lady, in answer, threw herself in Fanny’s arms.
“Fear not, Madame—he dares not injure you. Begone, Louis! insult us not
by your presence. Begone! I say.”
Fanny spoke angrily. She had not adopted this tone, but that the lady’s
terror, and the knowledge that even then the young soldier crouched at
their feet, burnt to spring up and confront his enemy, made her use an
authority which a woman always imagines that a lover dare not resist.
“I do not insult you,” repeated Chaumont—“I save you. I have no quarrel
with the lady; tyrants alone need fear me. You are not safe without my
escort. Do not you, false girl, irritate me. I have ensured her escape;
but yours—you are in my power.”
A violent movement at the bottom of the charrette called forth all
Fanny’s terrors.
“Take me!” she cried; “do with me what you please; but you dare not, you
cannot raise a finger against the innocent. Begone, I say! let me never
see you more!”
“You are obeyed. On you fall the consequences.”
Thus, after many months of separation, did Fanny and her lover meet. She
had purposed when she should see him to make an appeal to his better
nature—his reason; she had meant to use her all-persuasive voice to
recall him from the dangerous path he was treading. Several times,
indeed, since his arrival in the valley, she had endeavoured to obtain
an interview with him, but he dreaded her influence: he had resolved on
revenge, and he feared to be turned back. But now the unexpected
presence of his rival robbed her of her self-possession, and forced her
to change her plans. She saw frightful danger in their meeting, and all
her endeavours were directed to the getting rid of her lover.
Louis and his companions proceeded towards the chateau, while the
charrette of the fugitives moved on in the opposite direction. They met
many a ferocious group, who were rushing forward to aid in the
destruction of their home; and glad they were, in that awful hour, that
any object had power to divert the minds of their enemies from attention
to themselves. The road they pursued wound through the valley; the
precipitous mountain on one side, a brawling stream on the other. Now
they ascended higher and now again descended in their route, while the
road, broken by the fall of rocks, intersected by torrents, which tore
their way athwart it, made their progress slow. To get beyond the
village was the aim of their desires; when, lo! just as they came upon
it, and were in the very midst of its population, which was pouring
towards the castle, suddenly the charrette sank in a deep rut; it half
upset, and every spoke in the wheel giving way rendered the vehicle
wholly useless.
Fanny had indeed already sprung to the ground to examine what hope
remained: there was none. “Grand Dieu! we are lost!” were the first
words that escaped her, while Madame stood aghast, trembling, almost
insensible, knowing that the hope of her life, the existence of her son,
depended on these miserable moments.
A peasant who owed Fanny some kindness now advanced, and in a kind of
cavalier way, as if to blemish as much as he could the matter of his
offer by its manner, told them, that, for the pleasure of getting rid of
the aristocrats, he would lend his car—there it was, let them quickly
bestow their lading in it and pursue their way. As he spoke, he caught
up a box, and began the transfer from one car to the other.
“No, no!” cried Madame de Marville, as, with a scream, she sprang
forward and grasped the arm of the man as he was in the very act of
discovering her son’s hiding-place. “We will accept nothing from our
base enemies!—Begone with your offers! we will die here, rather than
accept anything from such _canaille_.”
The word was electric. The fierce passions of the mob, excited by the
mischief they were about to perpetrate, now burst like a stream into
this new channel. With violent execrations they rushed upon the
unfortunate woman: they would have torn her from the car, but already
her son had sprung from his hiding-place, and, striking a violent blow
at the foremost assailant, checked for a moment their brutal outrages.
Then again, with a yell, such as the savage Indians alone could emulate,
they rushed on their prey. Mother and son were torn asunder, and cries
of “A bas les aristocrats!”—“A la lanterne!” declared too truly their
sanguinary designs.
At this moment Louis appeared—Louis, whose fears for Fanny had overcome
his indignation, and who returned to guard her; while she, perceiving
him, with a burst of joy, called on him to rescue her friends. His cry
of “Arretez-vous!” was loud and distinct amidst the uproar. It was
obeyed; and then first he beheld his rival, his oppressor, his enemy in
his power. At first, rage inflamed every feature, to be replaced by an
expression of triumph and implacable hatred. Fanny caught the fierce
glance of his eye, and grew pale. She trembled as, trying to be calm,
she said, “Yes, you behold he is here. And you must save him—and your
own soul. Rescue him from death, and be blest that your evil career
enables you at least to perform this one good action.”
For a moment Louis seemed seeking for a word, as a man, meaning to stab,
may fumble for his dagger’s hilt, unable in his agitation to grasp his
weapon.
“My friends,” at length he said, “let the women depart—we have promised
it. Ye may deal with the young aristocrat according to his merits.”
“A la lanterne!” burst in response from a hundred voices.
“Let his mother first depart!”
Could it be Louis that spoke these words, and had she loved this man? To
appeal to him was to rouse a tiger from his lair. Another thought darted
into Fanny’s mind; she scarcely knew what she said or did: but already
knives were drawn; already, with a thrill of horror, she thought she saw
the blood of her childhood’s playmate spilt like water on the earth. She
rushed forward—she caught the upraised arm of one—“He is no aristocrat!”
she cried; “he is my husband!—Will you murder one who, forgetting his
birth, his duty, his honour, has married a peasant girl—one of
yourselves?”
Even this appeal had little effect upon the mob; but it strangely
affected her cruel lover. Grasping her arm with iron fingers, he cried,
“Is this tale true? Art thou married to that man—his wife?”
“Even so!”—the words died on her lips as she strove to form them,
terrified by their purport, and the effect they might produce. An
inexplicable expression passed over Chaumont’s face; the fierceness that
jealousy had engendered for a moment was exalted almost to madness, and
then faded wholly away. The stony heart within him softened at once. A
tide of warm, human, and overpowering emotion flowed into his soul: he
looked on her he had loved, on her whom he had lost for ever; and tears
rushed into his eyes, as he saw her trembling before him.
“Fear not,” at last he said; “fear neither for him nor yourself. Poor
girl! so young, you shall not lose all—so young, you shall not become a
widow. He shall be saved!”
Yet it was no easy task, even for him, to stem the awakened passions of
the bloodthirsty mob. He had spent many an hour in exciting them against
their seigneurs, and now at once to control the violence to which he had
given rise seemed impossible. Yet his energy, his strong will overcame
all opposition. They should pierce the chevalier’s heart, he swore,
through his alone. He prevailed. He took the rein of their mule, and led
them out of the village. All were silent; Fanny knew not what to say,
and surprise held the others mute. Louis went with them until a turn in
the road hid them from the view of the village. What his thoughts were,
none could guess: he looked calm, as resigning the rein into the
chevalier’s hands, he gently bade them “Farewell,” touching his hat in
reply to their salutations. They moved on, and Fanny looked back to
catch a last view of her lover: he was standing where they left him,
when suddenly, instead of returning on his steps into the village, she
saw him with rapid strides ascend the mountain-side, taking a well-known
path that conducted him away from the scene of his late exploits. His
pace was that of a man flying from pursuers—soon he was lost to sight.
Astonishment still kept the fugitives silent, as they pursued their way;
and when at last joy broke forth, and Madame de Marville, rejoicing in
their escape, embraced again and again her son, he with the softest
tenderness thanked Fanny for his life: she answered not, but wept
bitterly.
Late that night they reached the destined châlet, and found Monsieur de
Marville arrived. It was a half-ruined miserable habitation perched
among the snows, cold and bare; food was ill to be obtained, and danger
breathed around them. Fanny attended on them with assiduous care, but
she never spoke of the scene in the village; and though she strove to
look the same, Henry never addressed her but she grew pale, and her
voice trembled. She could not divine her absent lover’s thoughts, but
she knew that he believed her married to another; and that other,
earnestly though she strove to rule her feelings, became an object of
abhorrence to her.