THE CHAPEL OF GENET.
About ten days after the departure of the Larochejaquelins from
Durbellière, three persons were making the best of their way, on
horseback, through one of the deepest and dirtiest of the byeways, which
in those days, served the inhabitants of Poitou for roads, and along
which the farmers of the country contrived with infinite pains and
delay, to drag the produce of their fields to the market towns. The
lane, through which they were endeavouring to hurry the jaded animals
on which they were mounted, did not lead from one town to another, and
was not therefore paved; it was merely a narrow track between continual
rows of high trees, and appeared to wind hither and thither almost in
circles, and the mud at every step covered the fetlocks of the three
horses. The party consisted of two ladies and a man, who, though he rode
rather in advance of, than behind his companions, and spoke to them from
time to time, was their servant: a boy travelled on foot to show them
the different turns which their road made necessary to them; and though,
when chosen for the duty, he had received numerous injunctions as to the
speed with which he should travel, the urchin on foot had hitherto found
no difficulty in keeping up with the equestrians. The two ladies were
Madame de Lescure and her sister-in-law, and the servant was our trusty
friend Chapeau. And we must go back a little to recount as quickly as
we can, the misfortunes which brought them into their present situation.
No rest was allowed to the Vendean chiefs after reaching Chatillon from
Durbellière. The rapid advance of the republican troops made them think
it expedient to try the chance of battle with them at once. They had
consequently led out their patriot bands as far as Cholet, and had
there, after a murderous conflict, been grievously worsted. No men could
have fought better than did the Vendean peasants, for now they had
joined some degree of discipline and method to their accustomed valour;
but the number of their enemies was too great for them, and they
consisted of the best soldiers of whom France could boast. The Vendeans,
moreover, could not choose their own battle-field. They could not fight
as they had been accustomed to do, from behind hedges, and with every
advantage of locality on their side. They had thrown themselves on the
veteran troops, who had signalized themselves at Valmy and Mayence, with
a courage that amounted to desperation, but which, as it had not
purchased victory, exposed them to fearful carnage. D'Elbe, who acted
as Commander-in-Chief, fell early in the day. Bonchamps, whose military
skill was superior to that of any of the Vendeans; was mortally wounded,
and before the battle was lost, de Lescure--the brave de Lescure, whom
they all so loved, so nearly worshipped--was struck down and carried
from the field.
There was an immense degree of superstition mixed up with the religious
fervour of the singular people who were now fighting for their liberty;
and many of them sincerely believed that de Lescure was invulnerable,
and that they were secure from any fatal reverse as long as he was with
them. This faith was now destroyed; and when the rumour spread along
their lines that he had been killed, they threw down their arms, and
refused to return to the charge. It was in vain that Henri
Larochejaquelin and the young Chevalier tried to encourage them; that
they assured them that de Lescure was still living, and exposed their
own persons in the thickest of the enemy's fire. It was soon too evident
that the battle was lost, and that all that valour and skill could do,
was to change the flight into a retreat.
Many personal reasons would have made Henri prefer returning towards
Chatillon, but it had been decided that, in the event of such a disaster
as that which had now befallen them, the cause in which they were
engaged would be best furthered by a general retreat of all the troops
across the Loire into Brittany; and consequently Henri, collecting
together what he could of his shattered army, made the best of his way
to St. Florent. The men did not now hurry to their homes, as they did
after every battle, when the war first began; but their constancy to
their arms arose neither from increased courage nor better discipline.
They knew that their homes were now, or would soon be, but heaps of
ruins, and that their only hope of safety consisted in their remaining
with the army. This feeling, which prevented the dispersion of the men,
had another effect, which added greatly to the difficulty of the
officers. The wives, children, and sisters of the Vendean peasants, also
flocked to the army in such numbers, that by the time the disordered
multitude reached St. Florent, Henri found himself surrounded by 80,000
human, creatures, flying from the wrath of the blues, though not above
a quarter of that number were men capable of bearing arms.
De Lescure, in a litter, accompanied them to St. Florent, and Chapeau
was sent back to Chatillon to bid the ladies and the old Marquis join
the army at that place. Chapeau was sent direct from the field of battle
before it was known whether or no M. de Lescure's wound was mortal, and
at a moment when Henri could give him nothing but a general direction
as to the route which the army was about to take. Chapeau reached
Chatillon without accident; but having reached it, he found that his
difficulties were only about to commence. What was he to tell Madame de
Lescure of her husband? How was he to convey the three ladies and the
Marquis from Chatillon to St. Florent, through a country, the greater
portion of which would then be in the hands of the blues?
Make the best he could of it, the news was fearfully bad. He told Madame
de Lescure that her husband was certainly wounded, but that as certainly
he was not killed; and that he had every reason, though he could not say
what reason, to believe that the wound was not likely to be fatal. The
doubt conveyed in these tidings was, if possible, more fearful than any
certainty; added to this was the great probability that Chatillon would,
in a day or two, be in the hands of the republicans. They decided, or
rather Chapeau decided for them, that they should start immediately for
St. Florent; and that, instead of attempting to go by the direct road,
they should make their way thither by bye-lanes, and through small
villages, in which they possibly might escape the ferocity of their
enemies.
A huge waggon was procured, and in it a bed was laid, on which the
unfortunate old man could sit, and with the two horses which they had
brought with them from Durbellière, they started on their journey. They
rested the first night at St. Laurent, the place where Agatha had
established an hospital, and where Cathelineau had died. The Sisters of
Mercy who had tended it were still there, but the wards were now
deserted. Not that the wars afforded no occupants for them, but the
approach of the republicans had frightened away even the maimed and
sick. On the following morning Madame de Lescure declared that she could
no longer endure the slow progress of the waggon, and consequently,
Chapeau having with difficulty succeeded in procuring three horses, she
started, accompanied by him and her sister-in-law, to make her way as
best she could to her husband, while the Marquis and his daughter, with
a guide, followed in the cumbrous waggon.
On the second day the equestrians crossed the Sevre, at Mortaigne, and
reached Torfou in safety. On the third day they passed Montfaucon, and
were struggling to get on to a village called Chaudron, not far from St.
Florent, when we overtook them at the beginning of the chapter.
They had already, however, began to doubt that they could possibly
succeed in doing so. The shades of evening were coming on them. The poor
brutes which carried them were barely able to lift their legs, and,
Madame de Lescure was so overpowered with fatigue and anxiety, that she
could hardly sustain herself in the pillion on which she sat.
The peasants whom they met from time to time asked them hundreds of
questions about the war. Many of the men of the district were already
gone, and their wives and children were anxious to follow them, but the
poor creatures did not know which way to turn. They did not know where
the army was, or in what quarter they would be most secure. They had an
undefined fear that the blues were coming upon them with fire and
slaughter, and that they would be no longer safe, even in their own
humble cottages.
One person told them that Chaudron was distant only two leagues, and
hearing this they plucked up their courage, and made an effort to rouse
that of their steeds. Another, however, soon assured them that it was
at the very least a long five leagues to Chaudron, and again their
spirits sank in despair. A third had never heard the name of the place,
and at last a fourth informed them, that whatever the distance might be,
they were increasing it every moment, and that their horses' heads were
turned exactly in the wrong direction. Then at length their young guide
confessed that he must have lost his way, and excused himself by
declaring that the turnings were so like one another that it was
impossible for any one in that country really to remember his way at a
distance of more than two leagues from his own home.
"And what village are we nearest to, my friend?" said Chapeau, inquiring
of the man who had given the above unwelcome information.
"Why the chapel of Genet," said he, "is but a short quarter of a league
from you, and the Curé's house is close by, but the village and the
château are a long way beyond that, and not on the straight road
either."
"Ask him the Curé's name, Chapeau," said Marie: "we will go there and
tell him, who we are.'
"If he lives in his own house quietly now, Mademoiselle," answered
Chapeau, "it would be dangerous to do so; he must be one of the
constitutional priests." He asked the man, however, what was the name
of the Curé.
"Why the regular old Curé went away long since, and another was here a
while in his place--"
"Well, and he has gone away now, I suppose?" said Chapeau.
"Why, yes; he went away too a while since, when Cathelineau turned the
soldiers out of St. Florent."
"God bless him," said Chapeau, meaning Cathelineau, and not the priest.
"And is there no one in the house now, my friend? for you see these two
ladies are unable to travel further. If there be a friend living there,
I am sure he will procure them some accommodation."
"And where did the ladies come from?" asked the man.
"You need not be afraid," replied Chapeau, "they, and all belonging to
them, are friends to the good cause;" and then, after considering within
himself for a while, he added, "I will tell you who they are, they are
the wife and sister of M. de Lescure."
Had he told the man that they were angels from heaven, and had the man
believed him, he could neither have been more surprised, or expressed
a stronger feeling of adoration.
The poor man implored a multitude of blessings on the two ladies, whose
names were so dear to every peasant of La Vendée, and then told them
that after the new priest had ran away, the old Curé had come back to
his own house again, but that Father Bernard was a very old man, hardly
strong enough even to perform mass, though, as there was no one else to
it, he did go through it every Sabbath morning; that for these two days
past there had been another priest staying with Father Bernard; he did
not, however, know what his name was, but he knew that he had been with
the army, and that no priest through all La Vendée had been more active
than he had been to encourage the royalists. The man then offered to
show them to the Curé's house, and they all turned thither together.
The little chapel was on one side of the road, and the humble house of
the parish priest was immediately opposite to it, ensconced among a few
trees, at a little distance from the road. The door of the chapel was
open, and the murmuring sound of low voices within told the party that
vespers were being sung. Madame de Lescure did not like calling at the
priest's house without being announced, and she therefore desired
Chapeau to go down and explain who she was, and the circumstances under
which she begged for the Curé's hospitality, and proposed that she and
Marie should get off their horses, and remain in the chapel till Chapeau
returned.
They entered the little chapel, and found in it about a dozen peasants
on their knees, while a priest was chaunting the vespers from a small
side altar, built in a niche in the wall. It was now late, and the
light, which even abroad was growing dimmer every moment, was still less
strong within the building. They could not, therefore, see the face of
the priest as he knelt at the side of the altar, but the voice seemed
familiar to both of them.
Madame de Lescure, perhaps as much from fatigue as from devotion, sank
down at once upon her knees against a little stone seat which projected
from the wall near the door, but Marie remained standing, straining her
eyes to try to catch the features of the Curé. After a moment or two she
also knelt down, and said in a whisper to her sister, "It is the Curé
of St. Laud--it is our own Father Jerome."
They had hardly been a minute or two in their position near the door,
when the service for the evening was over, and the priest, rising from
the altar, gave his blessing to the little congregation. Some of them
rose from their knees and left the chapel, but a portion of them still
remained kneeling, with their heads in their hands, trying to make up,
by the length and perseverance of their devotion, for any deficiency
there might be in its fervour. The two ladies also rose, and though they
doubted for a moment what to do, they both advanced to the rude steps
of the little altar, at which Father Jerome was again kneeling. He had
not seen them as yet, nor had he noticed the entrance of any one, but
the ordinary congregation of the chapel; and so absorbed was he, either
in his thoughts or his devotions, that he did not even observe them till
they were standing close to his elbow.
"Father Jerome," said Madame de Lescure in a low voice, laying her hand
on the threadbare sleeve of the old grey coat, which he still wore. "If
you could guess the comfort I have in finding you here!"
The priest sprang from his knees at hearing her voice, and gazed at her
as though she had been a ghost.
"Is it possible," said he, "Madame de Lescure and Mademoiselle here in
the chapel of Genet!" and then turning to the gaping peasants, he said,
"go home, my children, go home! I have business to speak of to these
ladies."
"Oh, Father Jerome," said Madame de Lescure, as soon as they were alone,
"for heaven's sake tell me something of M. de Lescure. You have heard
of what happened at Cholet?"
"Yes, Madame, I was there," said the priest.
"You were there! then you can tell me of my husband. For God's sake,
speak, Father Jerome! Tell me the worst at once. I can bear it, for it
can't be worse than I expect. Is he--is he alive?"
Father Jerome had been in the midst of the hottest part of the battle
at Cholet, sometimes encouraging the troops by his words, and at others
leading them on by his example, charging at their head, with his huge
crucifix lifted high in the air. He had been close to de Lescure when
he fell, and had seen him in his litter after he was carried from the
field of battle. He could, therefore, have said at once that he had seen
him alive after the battle was over, but he had no wish to deceive
Madame de Lescure; and at the moment of which we are speaking, he most
undoubtedly believed that the wound had been fatal, and that her husband
was no more.
A musket-ball had entered just below the eye, and making its way
downwards, had lodged itself in the back of his neck. A surgeon had
examined the wound before Father Jerome left the army; and though he had
not positively said that it would prove mortal, he had spoken so
unfavourably of the case, as to make all those who heard him believe
that it would be so.
Had Father Jerome expected to see the two nearest and dearest relations
of the man whom he thought to be now no more, he would have prepared
himself for the difficult task which he would have had to undertake, and
no one would have been better able to go through it with feeling,
delicacy, and firmness; but such was not the case. The sudden apparition
of the wife and sister of his friend seemed to him to be supernatural;
and though he at once made up his mind to give no false hope, he could
not so quickly decide in what way he should impart the sad news which
he had to tell.
Madame de Lescure was trembling so violently as she asked the question,
on the answer to which her fate depended, that the priest observed it,
and he turned to the altar at the end of the chapel, to fetch a rude
chair which stood there for the use of the officiating clergyman, and
which was the only moveable seat in the chapel; and whilst doing so, he
was enabled to collect his thoughts, so as to answer not quite so much
at random as he otherwise must have done.
"Sit down, Madame de Lescure," said he, "sit down, Mademoiselle," and
he made the latter sit down on the altar step. "You are fatigued, and
you have agitated yourself too intensely."
"Why don't you speak, Father Jerome? Why don't you tell me at once--is
he alive?" And then she added, almost screaming in her agitation, "For
God's sake, Sir, don't keep a wretched, miserable woman in suspense!"
The priest gazed for a moment at the unfortunate lady. She had, at his
bidding sunk upon the chair, but she could hardly be said to be seated,
as, with her knees bent under her, and her hands clasped, she gazed up
into his face. She felt that her husband was dead but still, till the
fatal word was spoken, there was hope enough within her heart to feed
the agony of doubt which was tormenting her. Marie had hitherto said
nothing; she had made her own grief subservient to that of her brother's
wife, and, though hardly less anxious, she was less agitated than the
other.
"I cannot tell you anything with certainty, Madame," said the priest at
last. "I cannot--"
"Then you do not know that he is dead! Then there is, at any rate, some
room for hope!" said she, not allowing him to finish what he was about
to say; and she sank back in the chair, and relieved her overwrought
mind with a flood of tears.
The priest was firmly convinced that de Lescure was at this moment
numbered among the dead, and his conscience forbad him to relieve
himself of his dreadful task, by allowing her to entertain a false hope;
he had still, therefore, to say the words which he found it so difficult
to utter.
He sat down beside Marie on the low step of the altar, immediately
opposite to Madame de Lescure; he still had on him the vestments of his
holy office, though they were much worn, shabby, and soiled, and the
cap, which formed a part of the priest's dress when officiating, was on
his head; his shoes were so worn and tattered, that they were nearly
falling from his feet, and the stockings, which displayed the shape of
his huge legs, were so patched and darned with worsteds of different
colours, as to have made them more fitting for a mountebank than a.
priest. At the present moment, there was no one likely to notice his
costume; but had there been an observer there, it would have told him
a tale, easy to be read, of the sufferings which had been endured by
this brave and faithful servant of the King.
"When God, Madame de Lescure," said he, speaking in a kind, peculiarly
solemn tone of voice, "when God called upon you to be the wife of him
who has been to you so affectionate a husband, He vouchsafed to you
higher blessings, but at the same time imposed on you sterner duties
than those which women in general are called upon to bear. You have
enjoyed the blessings, and if I know your character, you will not shrink
from the duties."
"I will shrink from nothing, Father Jerome," said she. "God's will be
done! I will endeavour to bear the burden which His Providence lays on
me; but I have all a woman's weakness, and all a woman's fears."
"He who has given strength and courage to so many of His people in these
afflicted days, will also give it to you; He will enable you to bear the
weight of His hand, which in chastising, blesses us, which in punishing
us here, will render us fit for unutterable joys hereafter." He paused
a moment; but as neither of the women could now speak through their
tears, he went on: "I was close to your husband when he fell, and as his
eyes closed on the battlefield, they rested on the blessed emblem of his
redemption."
"He is dead then!" said she, jumping from her chair, and struggling with
the sobs which nearly choked her. "Oh Sir, if you have the mercy which
a man should feel for a wretched woman, tell me at least the truth," and
as she spoke, she threw herself on her knees before him.
Father Jerome certainly lacked no mercy, and usually speaking, he lacked
no firmness; but now he nearly felt himself overcome. "You must compose
yourself before I can speak calmly to you, my daughter--before you can
even understand what I shall say to you. I will not even speak to you
till you are again seated, and then I will tell you everything.
There--remember now, I will tell you everything as it happened, and, as
far as I know, all that did happen. You must summon up your courage, my
children, and show yourself worthy to have been the wife and sister of
that great man whom you loved so well."
"He is dead!" said Marie, speaking for the first time, and almost in a
whisper. "I know now that it is so," and she threw herself into her
sister's lap, and embraced her knees.
The priest did not contradict her, but commenced a narrative, which he
intended to convey to his listeners exactly the same impressions which
were on his own mind. In this, however, he failed. He told them that de
Lescure had been carried senseless from the field, and had been taken
by Henri in a litter on the road towards St. Florent; that he himself
had been present when the surgeon expressed an almost fatal opinion
respecting the wound, but that the wounded man was still alive when he
last saw him, and that, since then, he had heard no certain news
respecting him. Even this statement, which the priest was unable to make
without many interruptions, acted rather as a relief than otherwise to
Madame de Lescure. She might, at any rate, see her husband again; and
it was still possible that both the surgeon and Father Jerome might be
wrong. As soon as he had told his tale, she, forgetting her fatigue, and
the difficulties which surrounded her, wanted immediately to resume her
journey, and Father Jerome was equally anxious to learn how she and
Marie had come so far, and how they intended to proceed.
Chapeau had in the mean time called on the old priest, and though he had
found it almost impossible to make him understand what he wanted, or who
the ladies were of whom he spoke, he had learnt that Father Jerome was
in the chapel, and was as much gratified as he was surprised to hear it.
He had then hurried back, and though he had not put himself forward
during the scene which has been just described, he had heard what had
passed.
He now explained to Father Jerome the way in which they had left
Chatillon, and journeyed on horseback from St. Laurent, and declared,
at the same time with much truth, that it was quite impossible for them
to proceed farther on their way that night.
"The poor brutes are dead beat," said he. "All the spurs in Poitou
wouldn't get them on a league. The night will be pitch dark, too, and,
above all, Madame and Mademoiselle would be killed. They have already
been on horseback all day--and so they were yesterday: it is quite clear
they must rest here tonight."
Chapeau's arguments against their farther progress were conclusive, and
as there was no better shelter to which to take them, Father Jerome led
them into the little glebe. "There is but one bed left in the place,"
said he, as he entered the gate, "but you will be very welcome to that;
you will find it poor enough; Father Bernard has shared it with me for
the last two nights. We poor Curés have not many luxuries to offer to
our friends now."
Madame de Lescure tried to utter some kind of protest that she would not
turn the poor old man out of his only bed, but she succeeded badly in
the attempt, for her heart was sad within her, and she hardly knew what
she was saying. They all followed Father Jerome out of the chapel, of
which he locked the door, and putting the key into his pocket, strode
into the humble dwelling opposite.
They found Father Bernard seated over a low wood fire, in a small
sitting-room, in which the smell arising from the burning of damp sticks
was very prevalent. There was one small rickety table in the middle of
the room, and one other chair besides that occupied by the host, and
with these articles alone the room was furnished. That there was no
carpet in a clergyman's house in Poitou was not remarkable; indeed it
would have been very remarkable if there had been one; but the total
want of any of the usual comforts of civilized life struck even Madame
de Lescure, unsuited as she was at the present moment to take notice of
such things.
The old man did not rise, but stared at them somewhat wildly: he was
nearly doting from age; and fear, poverty, and sorrow, added to his many
years, had now weighed him down almost to idiotcy. Father Jerome did the
honours of the house; he made Madame de Lescure sit down on the chair,
and then bustling into the kitchen, brought out a three legged stool,
which he wiped with the sleeve of his coat, and offered to Marie. Then
he took Chapeau to the door, and whispered to him some secret
communication with reference to supper; in fact, he had to confess that
there was nothing in the house but bread, and but little of that. That
neither he or Father Bernard had a sou piece between them, and that
unless Chapeau had money, and could go as far as the village and
purchase eggs, they would all have to go supperless to bed. Chapeau
luckily was provided, and started at once to forage for the party, and
Father Jerome returned into the room relieved from a heavy weight.
"My dear old friend here," said he, laying his hand on the old man's
arm, "has not much to offer you; but I am sure you are welcome to what
-he has. There is not a heart in all La Vendée beats truer to his
sovereign than his. Old age, misfortune, and persecution, have lain a
heavy hand on him lately, but his heart still warms to the cause. Does
it not my old friend?" And Father Jerome looked kindly into his face,
striving to encourage him into some little share of interest in what was
going on.
"I don't think I'll ever be warm again," said the old man, drawing his
chair still nearer to the dull smoky fire, and shivering as he did so.
"Everything is cold now. I don't understand why these ladies are come
here, or what they're to do; but they're very welcome, Jerome, very
welcome. A strange man came in just now, and said they must have my
bed."
"Oh no, Sir," said Madame de Lescure, inexpressibly shocked at the
dreadful misery of the poor old man; "indeed, indeed, we will not. It
is only for one night, and we shall do very well. Indeed, we would not
turn you out of your bed."
"You are welcome, Madame, welcome to it all--welcome as the flowers in
May. I know who you are, though I forget your name; it is a name dear
to all La Vendée. Your husband is a great and good man; indeed, you
shall have my bed, though you'll find it very cold. Your husband--but,
oh dear! I beg your pardon, Madame, I forgot."
I need not say that the evening which they spent at Genet, was
melancholy enough, and the privations which they suffered were dreadful.
During the early part of the night both Madame de Lescure and Marie lay
down for a few hours, but nothing, which could be said, would induce
them to keep the old priest longer from his bed. About midnight they got
up and spent the remainder of the night seated on the two chairs near
the fire, while Father Jerome squatted on the stool, and with his elbows
on his knees, and his face upon his hands, sat out the long night,
meditating upon the fortunes of La Vendée.
They started early on the next morning, and the priest of St. Laud's
went with them, leaving Father Bernard in perfect solitude, for he had
neither friend or relative to reside beneath his roof.
"Some of them will come down from time to time," said Father Jerome,
"and do what little can be done for him, poor old man! His sufferings,
it is to be hoped, will not last many days."
"And will he perform mass next Sunday?" said Marie.
"Indeed he will, if able to walk across the road into the chapel, and
will forget no word of the service, and make no blunder in the ceremony.
To you he seems to be an idiot, but he is not so, though long suffering
has made his mind to wander strangely, when he sees strange faces. There
are many who have been called to a more active sphere of duty for their
King and country than that poor Curé, but none who have suffered more
acutely for the cause, and have born their sufferings with greater
patience."