THE LAST DAY AT DURBELLIÈRE.
After the re-capture of Durbellière, and the liberation of Santerre, the
Vendeans again assembled in arms in different portions of the revolted
district, and fought their battles always with valour, and not
unfrequently with success. They did not, however, again form themselves
into one body, till the beginning of October, when news having reached
them that a large army, under fiercer leaders, was to be sent by the
Republic for their extermination, it became necessary to take some
decided step for their own protection. The Vendean Generals then decided
to call together all the men they could collect at Chatillon, a town in
the very centre of their country, and there also to prepare such a
quantity of military stores and ammunition, as would make the place a
useful and secure basis for their movements.
Some jealousy had arisen among the Generals; and on the death of
Cathelineau, d'Elbée had been chosen Commander-in-Chief, through the
influence of those who were envious of the popularity of M. de Lescure.
On the latter, however, the management of the war depended; and though
his exertions were greatly impeded by the factious spirit which
unfortunately prevailed among the royalists, he nevertheless succeeded
in collecting, equipping, and maintaining a considerable army. The
republican troops of Lechelle and Thurreau were not long in making their
way to the devoted district, and tidings soon reached Chatillon that
they were devastating the country round Doué and Vihiers, and that
parties of them had advanced to the neighbourhood of Cholet.
It was then determined at Chatillon that the royalist army should
advance towards the republicans: that they should fight them on the
first field of battle on which they could meet them, and that if beaten,
they should cross the Loire into Britanny, and make their way to the
coast, to meet the succour which had been promised them from England.
Every day that the battle was delayed, hundreds of children and women
perished in cold blood, numberless humble dwellings were reduced to
ashes. The commands of Robespierre were being executed; the land was
being saturated with the blood of its inhabitants.
De Lescure and Larochejaquelin were both staying at Chatillon. But
Chatillon is but a league or two from Durbellière, and one or the other
of them was almost daily at the château. They had many cares upon them
besides those of the army; cares which, though not productive of so much
actual labour, sat, if possible, heavier on their hearts. What were they
to do with those dear but weak friends who were still at the château?
three loving and beloved women, and an infirm old man, more helpless
even than the women! They could not be left at Durbellière, for the
château would doubtless, before long, be again taken by some marauding
party of their enemies, and any death would be preferable to the fate
which would there await them.
Henri now felt the weight of those miseries which his father had
foretold; when he, flushed with the victory at Saumur, returned home
after the campaign in which he had first drawn his sword so gloriously.
He felt that he had done his duty, and therefore he regretted nothing;
but he also felt that he might probably soon be without the power of
protecting those who were so much dearer to him than his life, and the
suffering arising from such thoughts was almost more than he could bear.
It was at last determined that the whole party should leave the château,
and go over to Chatillon--there would be at any rate a better chance
of security there than at Durbellière, and also better means of escape,
should the town fall into the hands of their enemies.
It was a grievous thing to tell that old man that he must leave the
house, where he had spent his quiet life, and go to strange places, to
finish the short remainder of his days amid the turmoil of battles, and
the continual troubles and dangers of a moving army. Nevertheless he
bore it well. At first he beseeched them to leave him and old Momont,
among his birds and cherry trees, declaring that nothing that the blues
could do to him would be to him so calamitous as his removal from the
spot in which he had so long taken root. But his children soon made him
understand that it was impossible that they could abandon him, a cripple
as he was, unattended, and exposed to the certain fury of the
republicans. He yielded, therefore, and when the sad day came, he blamed
no one, as they lifted him into the huge carriage, in which he was
removed to Chatillon. To the last he was proudly loyal to the King; and,
as he was carried over the threshold of his door, he said, that if God
would grant him another favour in this world, it would be, that he might
return once more to his own home, to welcome there some scion of his
royal master's house.
Henri, de Lescure, and the little Chevalier, all came over to spend the
last day at Durbellière, and a melancholy day it was. Madame de Lescure,
Marie, and Agatha were also there, and all the servants, most of whom
had been born in the family, and all of whom, excepting Chapeau and one
maid, were now to be sent abroad to look for their living in a country
in which the life itself of every native was in hourly danger. Hard they
begged to be allowed to link their fate to that of their young mistress,
declaring that they would never more complain, even though they were
again called out to die, as they had been on that fearful evening when
Santerre had found himself unable to give the fatal order. It was
impossible--the safety of four women, who would probably have to be
carried backwards and forwards through a country bristling with hostile
troops, was a fearful burden to the young leaders; it would have been
madness for them to increase it. The wretched girls, therefore, prepared
to make their way to the homes of their relatives, knowing that those
homes would soon be turned into heaps of ashes. It was a bright warm
autumn day this, the last which the Larochejaquelins were to pass
together in the mansion in which they had all been born. The men came
over early, and breakfasted at the château, and both Henri and Arthur
worked hard to relieve the sadness of the party with some sparks of
their accustomed gaiety; the attempt, however, was futile; they each
felt that their hours of gaiety were gone by, and before the meal was
over, they had both resolved that any attempt at mirth that day, would
be a stretch of hypocrisy beyond their power.
When breakfast was over, the Marquis begged that, for the last time, he
might be wheeled round the garden-walks, which he loved so well, and
accordingly he was put into his chair, and, accompanied by his children
and friends, was dragged through every alley, and every little
meandering path. He would not spare himself a single turn--he had a tear
to give to every well-known tree, an adieu to make to every painted
figure. To de Lescure and the others, the comic attitudes of these
uncouth ornaments was, at the present moment, any thing but interesting;
but to the Marquis, each of them was an old and well-loved friend, whom
even in his extremity he could hardly bring himself to desert. On their
return into the house from the garden, they began to employ themselves
with arranging and packing the little articles which they intended to
take with them. They had all counted on having much to do during the
short hours of this one last day; on being hurried and pressed, so as
to be hardly able to get through their task; but instead of this their
work was soon done, and the minutes hung heavy on their hands. They
would not talk of the things which were near their hearts, for they
feared to add to each other's misery; they strove therefore to talk on
indifferent subjects, and soon broke down in every attempt they made at
conversation.
Agatha never left her father's side for a moment, and though she seldom
spoke to him, she did a thousand little acts of sedulous attention,
which showed him that she was near to him. Her gentle touch was almost
as precious to him as her voice. De Lescure sat near his wife the whole
day, speaking to her from time to time in a whisper, and feeling the
weight upon his spirits so great that even with her he could hardly talk
freely. He was already without a roof which he could call his own, and
he was aware his friends would soon be equally desolate; such hitherto
had been the result of their gallant enterprise.
Henri had much to say--much that he had made up his mind to say to Marie
before he left Durbellière, but he put off the moment of saying it from
hour to hour, and it was not till near midnight that it was said. Marie
herself, bore herself more manfully, if I may say so, than any of them;
she really employed herself, and thought of a thousand things conducive
to their future comfort, which would have been forgotten or neglected
had she not been there. The little Chevalier tried hard to assist her,
but the pale sad face of Agatha, and the silent tears which from time
to time moistened the cheeks of the Marquis, and told how acute were the
sufferings which he tried in vain to hide, were too much for the poor
boy; he soon betook himself alone into the cherry grove, where he
wandered about unseen, and if the truth must be told, more than once
threw himself on the ground, and wept bitterly and aloud.
They sat down to dinner about three o'clock; but their dinner was, if
possible, a worse affair than their breakfast. They were not only sad,
but worn out and jaded with sorrow. The very servants, as they moved the
dishes, sobbed aloud; and at last, Momont, who had vainly attempted to
carry himself with propriety before the others, utterly gave way, and
throwing himself on to a chair in the salon, declared that nothing but
violence should separate him from his master.
"It is five-and-fifty years," said he, sobbing, "since I first waited
on Monseigneur. We were boys then, and now we are old men together It
is not natural that we should part. Where he goes, I will go. I will
cling to his carriage, unless they cut me down with swords."
No one could rebuke the old man--certainly not the master whom he loved
so well; and though they knew that it would be impossible to provide for
him, none of them at the moment had the heart to tell him so.
By degrees the daylight faded away, and for the last time, they watched
the sun sink down among the cherry trees of Durbellière, and the
Marquis, seated by the window, gazed into the West till not a streak of
light was any longer visible; then he felt that the sun of this world
had set for him for good and all. Even though he might live out a few
more weary years, even though the cause to which he was attached should
be victorious, yet he knew that Durbellière would be destroyed, and it
never could be anything to him how the sun set or rose in any other
place. His warm heart yearned towards his house; the very chair on which
he sat, the stool on which rested his crippled legs, were objects of an
affection which he had before felt, but never till now acknowledged.
Every object on which his eye rested gave him a new pang; every article
within his reach was a dear friend, whom he had long loved, and was now
to leave for ever.
Still he did not utter one word of complaint; he did not once murmur at
his fate; he never reminded his son that he had, by his impetuosity,
hurried on his old father to destruction. He never repined at the
sacrifice he had made--I will not say for his King, for King at present
he had none; the throne had been laid low, and the precious blood of him
who should have filled it had been shed. No; his sacrifices had been to
an abstract feeling of loyalty, which made fealty to the Crown, whether
worn or in abeyance, only second in his bosom to obedience to his God.
The day faded away, and they still sat together in the room in which
they had dined, each wrapped in his own thoughts, till the darkness of
night was upon them, and still no one felt inclined to rise and ask for
candles.
After a long pause, Arthur made a bold attempt to break through the
heaviness of the evening. "We are not so badly off, at any rate," said
he, "as we were on that night when Santerre and his men were here; are
we, Agatha?"
"We are not badly off at all," said Henri. "We have now what we never
had before--a fine army collected together in one spot, a promise of
succour from faithful England, and a strong probability of ultimate
success. After all, what are we giving up but an old barrack? Let the
rascal blues burn it; cannot we build a better Durbellière when the King
shall have his own again?"
"Ah, Henri!" said the Marquis. It was the only reproach he uttered,
though the words of his son, intended as they were to excite hope, and
to give comfort, had been to him most distasteful.
Henri was in a moment at his father's feet. "Pardon me, father!" said
he; "you know that I did not mean to give you pain. We all love the old
house--none of us so well as you perhaps; but we all love it; yet what
can we do? Were we to remain here, we should only be smothered beneath
its ashes."
"God's will be done, my son. He knows that I do not begrudge my house
in his service, and in that of my royal master. It is not likely that
I should do so, when I have not begrudged the blood of my children."
They were all to start on the following morning by break of day, and,
therefore, the necessity of early rising gave them an excuse desired by
all, for retiring early for the night. They could not talk together, for
every word that was spoken begot fresh sources of sorrow; they could not
employ themselves, for their minds were unhinged and unfitted for
employment; so they agreed that they would go to bed, and before nine
o'clock, the family separated for the night.
They did not, however, all go to rest. Henri, as he handed a light to
his cousin, told her that he wanted to speak two words to her in his
sister's room, and as she did not dissent, he followed the two girls
thither. Two words! It took nearly the whole long night to say those two
words.
Henri Larochejaquelin had thought long and deeply on the position in
which he and his betrothed were now placed, before he made the request
to which he asked her to listen that night, and it was from no selfish
passion that he made it. In the presence of his sister, he asked her to
marry him as soon as they reached Chatillon, so that when next the army
separated, he might deem himself her natural protector. He had already
asked and obtained de Lescure's permission. The brother gave it, not
absolutely unwillingly, but with strong advice to Henri to take no new
cares upon himself during the present crisis, and declaring that he
would use no influence with his sister, either one way or the other.
Marie, with a woman's instinct, anticipated the nature of Henri's two
words, and in a moment resolved on the answer she would give him: if her
lover was generous, so would she be; she would never consent to link
herself to him at a moment when the union could only be to him a source
of additional cares and new sorrow.
Henri soon made his request: he did not do it, as he would have done in
happier times; kneeling at her feet, and looking into her eyes for that
love, which he might well know he should find there: he had not come to
talk of the pleasures and endearments of affection, and to ask for her
hand as the accomplishment of all his wishes; but he spoke of their
marriage as a providential measure, called for by the calamitous
necessities of the moment, and in every argument which he used, he
appealed to Agatha to support him.
"No, Henri," said Marie, after she had already answered him with a
faint, but what she intended to be a firm denial. "No, it must not,
cannot, ought not be so. I am, I know, somewhat de trop in this tragedy
we are playing. There are you and Charles, two good knights and true,
and each of you has a lady whom it is his duty to protect. I am a poor
forlorn young damsel, and though both of you are so gallant as to offer
me a hand to help me over the perilous path we are treading, I know that
I am grievously in the way."
"You are joking now, love," said Henri, "and I am not only speaking, but
thinking, in most true and sober earnest."
"No, Henri, I am not joking; am I, Agatha? One need not be joking
because one does not use harsh, grim words. What I say is true. I must
be an additional burden either to you or Charles. You are already the
heaviest laden, for you have your father to care for. Besides, I have
a claim upon Charles; I have for eighteen years been to him an obedient
sister."
"And have you no claim on me, Marie?"
"A slight one, as a cousin; but only in default of Charles. Don't look
so unhappy," and she held out her little hand to him as she spoke. "The
day may come when I shall have a still stronger claim upon you; when I
have been to you for eighteen years an obedient wife."
"These are times when stern truths must be spoken," said Henri. "The
lives of us all must now be in constant jeopardy--that is, of us who
must go out to battle."
"Ay, and of us women too. Don't be afraid of our lacking courage. Do not
be afraid that the truth will frighten us. Agatha, and Victorine, and
I, have schooled ourselves to think of death without flinching."
"To think without flinching of the death of others, is the difficulty,"
said Agatha. "I fear we have none of us as yet brought ourselves to
that."
"But we must think of the death of others," said Henri. "Should de
Lescure fall--"
"May God Almighty in His mercy protect and guard him!" said the sister.
"But should he fall--and in battle there is none, I will not say so
rash, but so forward as him--should he fall, will it not be a comfort
to him to know that his sister has a husband to protect her; that his
widow has a brother to whom she can turn. Should I fall, will it not be
better for Agatha that you should be more closely knit together even
than you are?"
"That can never be, can it, Agatha? We can never be more entirely
sisters than we are."
"You talk like a child, Marie. You perhaps may never have a warmer love
for each other than you now have, but that is not the question. You must
see how great would be the advantage to us all of our union being at
once completed You should not now allow a phantasy of misplaced
generosity to stand in the way of an arrangement which is so
desirable."
"Nay, Henri, now you are neither fair nor courteous. You are presuming
a little on the affection which I have owned in arguing that I am
prevented only by what you call generosity from so immediate a marriage;
that is as much as to say, that if I consulted my own wishes only, I
should marry you at once."
"It is you that are now unfair," said Agatha. "You know that he did not
mean to draw such a conclusion. You almost tempt me to say that he might
do so, without being far wrong. You are flirting now, Marie."
"Heaven help me then; but if so, I have committed that sin most
unconsciously, and, I believe, for the first time in my life. I have had
but one lover, and I accepted him, the very moment that he spoke to me.
I can, at any rate, have but little flirtation to answer for."
"Alas! dearest love," said Henri, "we are both driven to think and talk
of these things in a different tone from that which is usual in the
world. If I was merely seeking to transplant you in days of peace from
your own comfortable home, to be the pride and ornament of mine, I would
not curtail by one iota the privilege of your sex. I wouldn't presume
to think that you could wish yourself to give up your girlish liberty.
If you allowed me any hope, I would ascribe it all to the kindness of
your disposition; your word should be my law, and though I might pray
for mercy, I would submissively take my fate from your lips. I would
write odes to you, if I were able, and would swear in every town in
Poitou that you were the prettiest girl, and sweetest angel in all
France, Italy, or Spain."
"Thanks, Henri, thanks; but now you have too much to do to trouble
yourself with such tedious gallantries. Is not that to be the end of
your fine speech?"
"Trouble myself, Marie!"
"Yes, trouble yourself, Henri, and it would trouble me too. It is not
that I regret such nonsense. I accept your manly love as it has been
offered, and tell you that you have my whole heart. It is from no
girlish squeamishness, from no wish to exercise my short-lived power,
that I refuse to do what you now ask me. I would marry you tomorrow,
were you to ask me, did I not think that I should be wrong to do so. Am
I now not frank and honest?"
Henri put his arms round her waist, and clasped her to his bosom before
he answered her:
"You are, you are, my own, own love. You were always true, and honest,
and reasonable--so reasonable that--"
"Ah! now you are going to encroach."
"I am going to ask you once again to think of what I have said. It is
not to your love, but to your reason, that I now appeal."
"Well, Henri, we will leave love aside, and both of us appeal to reason.
Here she sits, always calm, passionless, and wise," and Marie put her
hand upon Agatha's arm. "We will appeal to Reason personified, and if
Reason says that, were she situated as I am, she would do as you now
wish me to do, I will be guided by Reason, and comply." Henri now turned
round to his sister, but Marie stopped him from speaking, and continued:
"I have pledged myself, and do you do likewise. If Reason gives her
judgment against you, you will yield without a word."
"Well, I will do so," said Henri. "I'm sure, however, she will not;
Agatha must see the importance of our being joined as closely together
as is possible."
"You are attempting to influence Dame Reason, but it will be useless.
And now, Reason, you are to remember, as of course you do, for Reason
forgets nothing, that you are to think neither of brothers or of
sisters. You are entirely to drop your feelings as Agatha, and to be
pure Reason undefiled by mortal taint. You are to say, whether, were
you, Reason, placed as I am now, you would marry this unreasonable young
man as soon as he gets to Chatillon, which means tomorrow, or the day
after, or the day after that at the very latest. Now, Reason, speak, and
speak wisely."
"You have given me a thankless task between you. I cannot decide without
giving pain to one of you."
"Reason always has a thankless task," said Marie. "Reason is her own
reward--and a very unpleasant reward she usually has."
"Do you think," said Henri, "it will give so much pain to Marie to be
told that she is to marry the man whom she owns she loves?"
"Ah, Henri," said Agatha, "you are prejudiced. I do not mean as to
Marie's love, but as to my award. I might, perhaps, not pain her so much
by advising her to marry you at once, as I fear I shall pain you by
telling her, that in her place, I should not do so."
They both sat in breathless silence to hear their fate from Agatha's
lips. Though Marie had appealed to her with a degree of playfulness,
which gave to her an air of indifference on the subject, she was
anything but indifferent; and yet it would have been difficult to
analyse her wishes; she was quite decided that it was becoming in her
to refuse Henri's prayer, nay, that it would be selfish in her to grant
it; and yet, though she appealed to Reason so confidently to confirm her
refusal, there was a wish, almost a hope, near her heart, that Agatha
might take her brother's part. They were, neither of them, perhaps,
gratified by the decision.
"Reason has said it," said Marie, after a short pause, "and Reason shall
be rewarded with a kiss;" and she put her arms round her cousin's neck
and kissed her.
"But why, Agatha, tell me why?" said Henri. He, at any rate, was not
ashamed to show that he was disappointed.
"Do not be so inconsiderate as to ask Reason for reasons," said Marie.
"I will tell you why, Henri. I would never consent to make myself a
burden to a man at a moment when I could not make myself a comfort to
him; besides, the time of marriage should be a time of joy, and this is
no time for joy. Again, there is a stronger and sadder reason still. Did
you ever see a young widow, who had not reached her twentieth year? if
so, did you ever see a sadder sight? Would you unnecessarily doom our
dear Marie to that fate! I know you so well, my dear brother, that I do
not fear to speak to you of the too probable lot of a brave soldier!"
"That is enough!" said Henri, "I am convinced."
"Do not say that, Agatha, do not say that," said Marie, springing up and
throwing herself into her lover's arms. "Indeed, indeed, it was not of
that I thought. Though we should never marry, yet were you to fall, your
memory should be the same to me as that of a husband. I could never
forget your love--your disinterested love--there is no treasure on this
side the grave which I so value. It is the pride of my solitary hours,
and the happiness of the few happy thoughts I have. The world would be
nothing to me without you. When you are away, I pray to God to bring you
back to me. When you are with us I am dreading the moment that you will
go. Oh, Agatha, Agatha! why did you say those last fearful words!"
"You asked me for the truth, Marie, and it was right that I should tell
it you; it was on my tongue to say the same to Henri, before you
appealed to me at all."
"You were right, dearest Agatha," said Henri; "and now, God bless you,
Marie. I value such love as yours highly as it is worth. I trust the day
may come when I can again ask you for your hand."
"I will never refuse it again. You shall have it now, tomorrow, next
day, any day that you will ask it. Oh, Agatha! my brain is so turned by
what you have said, that I could almost go on my knees to beg him to
accept it."
"Come, Henri, leave us," said Agatha, "and prevent such a scandal as
that would be; there are but a few hours for us to be in bed."
Henri kissed his sister, and when he gave his hand to Marie, she did not
turn her lips away from him; and as he threw himself on his bed, he
hardly knew whether, if he could have his own way, he would marry her
at once or not.