"YOU SHALL HAVE NO CHOICE."
I EXPECTED nothing less than to be taken at once to the Carmelite
convent with which I had been threatened. I was therefore agreeably
surprised when, on being led to the courtyard I found all my uncle's
servants assembled, and his own travelling carriage waiting, with my
aunt already seated in it. There were three vacant places, one of which
I was desired to take, while my uncle placed himself in the other,
and my aunt's gentlewoman took the fourth. There was a great deal of
running back and forth for small packages which had been forgotten, a
great deal of ordering and counter-ordering, of pulling at straps and
examining of buckles; but at last all was ready, and we set out. My
aunt had not spoken to me at all, but as we passed a fine house which
was being newly repaired and decorated she broke out with—
"And to think, ungrateful girl, that all that might have been yours,
and you must throw it all away for a whim!"
I made no answer, for there was nothing to be said.
"There is no use in talking further on that matter, madame," said
my uncle. "Vevette has made her decision, and she must abide the
consequences. Henceforth she will have no choice as to what she will
do. All will be decided for her, and it is possible she may come to
regret Monsieur de Luynes."
"That may well be, my uncle, since Monsieur de Luynes was a true
friend, who did not expect to gain any hidden treasures by his
kindness," I answered. "But I shall never regret having acted honorably
by him, whatever happens."
My uncle bit his lip, as well he might, and I saw the waiting-woman
look out of the window to hide a smile. She knew all about my uncle's
Journey to Normandy, and, like others of her class, she enjoyed a hit
at her betters.
"Be silent!" said my uncle sternly. "Nobody wishes to hear the sound of
your voice. Speak only when you are spoken to."
I obeyed, and, indeed, I had no inclination to talk. The morning was
beautiful, and the spring was just coming on, and, forlorn as it
looked, I was delighted to see the open country once more, and to
breathe an air not poisoned with the thousand and one smells—not to use
a stronger word—of Paris. The king could indeed crush and impoverish
his poor people to maintain his armies and his mistresses, but he could
not hinder the wild flowers from blooming nor the birds from singing.
My spirits rose insensibly, and I more than once caught myself on the
point of breaking out into a song.
My uncle sat back in the corner and said nothing. My aunt kept up a
perpetual prattle with Susanne, now bewailing her banishment from Paris
and the court, now remarking upon this or that fine lady, and listening
to the tittle-tattle in which Susanne was a proficient.
At last my uncle said he would ride on horseback a while, so his
groom was called up with the spare horse, and we women were left to
ourselves. Then my aunt fell upon me, and such a rating as she gave
me! I have heard English women scold, but I never heard any fishwoman
equal my elegant, double-refined aunt, Madame de Fayrolles. She worked
herself up into such a passion that she told a good deal more than she
meant, and thus I learned that my Lord Stanton had returned a very
short and sharp answer to Monsieur de Fayrolles' letter, absolutely
refusing to let him have any of the property intrusted to him, and
requiring that I should at once return to England.
So my friends had not quite forgotten or forsaken me. That was some
comfort, but I dared not say so. My aunt went on, growing more and more
excited, till she ended with—
"And when I thought at least I should have you to help me at Fayrolles,
to draw patterns for my embroidery, and sing and read aloud to me, I
cannot even enjoy that."
"But indeed, aunt, I will do anything for you—singing or reading, or
whatever you please," I said soothingly, for I was afraid of one of
her fits of nerves. "There is nothing in my power that I will not do
for you if you will let me, at Fayrolles or anywhere else. You know
we agreed to work chairs upon satin for the salon, and I have several
patterns drawn already."
"Yes, but you won't be at Fayrolles!" said my aunt between her sobs.
And then, catching a warning glance from Susanne, she said no more.
Then I was not to go to Fayrolles! What did they mean to do with me?
To send me back to England? That was not likely, after what my uncle
had said about my having no choice. Probably I should be placed in some
country convent, where I should be out of reach of all help, whatever
happened, and where no one would ever hear from me again. This was
what I dreaded of all things. I had almost given up any belief in the
faith I had lately professed, and the question occurred to me whether
I ought not openly to confess the change which had come over me. I
knew only too well what such a confession involved—either a life-long
imprisonment or a horrible death—perhaps being left to perish by inches
in some underground cell, amid rats and vermin. Such things happened
all the time.
Worse even than that, I knew that many of the convents were sinks
of iniquity—places of resort for idle young gentlemen and wickeder
women, like that of Port Royal, which afterward passed through so many
vicissitudes. I am very far from saying that they were all of this
character, but a great many of them were so, even taking the accounts
of Roman Catholics themselves.* A residence in such a community was no
pleasant prospect.
* See Racine's "Memoirs of Port Royal." Letters of St. Francis
de Sales, and almost any free-spoken memoirs of the time.
And was I, after all, ready to die for my faith? Had I indeed any
assured faith to die for? Might not Father Martien be right after all?
My mind was tossed upon a sea of doubt and conjecture, and for a time
found no rest; but at last I was enabled to pray, and to cast myself,
more completely than I had ever done before, upon the arms of mercy.
I asked for light and help above all things, and light and help were
given me, not all at once, but by degrees. I became sensible of a sweet
calm and clearness of mind, in which I saw all things more plainly. I
felt sure that my many sins had been forgiven and washed away, and that
when the time came for action, I should have strength given me to act
for the best.
I had plenty of time for my own thoughts, for my uncle soon reentered
the carriage, and after that my aunt did not venture to speak to
me again, though she talked at me whenever there was a chance. She
was a woman who bore discomfort of any kind very ill, and the more
weary she grew with her journey, the more unbearable grew her peevish
fretfulness. At last my uncle was moved to speak sharply to her,
whereupon she fell into one of her nervous fits, and I had to exert all
my skill to keep her from throwing herself out of the carriage. With
much expenditure of coaxing and soothing I got her quieted at last, and
persuaded her to take some refreshment, after which she fell asleep.
I fancy my attentions softened her heart toward me, for she was
much more kind to me during the rest of the day, and I thought even
interceded for me with her husband; but if so it was without avail, and
even increased my troubles.
For the whole of the next day I travelled with my former maid, Zelie,
and the old woman I had spoken of. They understood my disgrace well
enough, and did all in their power to make me feel it, treating me with
the utmost insolence and neglect, so that at the inns where we stopped,
I had the most wretched lodgings imaginable, and really went hungry
while my jailers, for such they were, feasted upon dainties at my
uncle's expense. In this, however, they overshot the mark and brought
themselves into trouble. My uncle, remarking in the morning upon my
extreme paleness, asked whether I was ill.
"No, monsieur," I answered, "I am not ill, but I am hungry. I have
had not a morsel since yesterday noon but some crusts of mouldy black
bread, which I could not have eaten if I had been starving."
Monsieur turned angrily upon Zelie, who stammered and denied and
charged me with falsehood; but my uncle knew me well enough to believe
what I said, and my face spoke for itself. I was once more removed to
my aunt's carriage, and fared as she did, and the rest of the way was
more comfortable. Susanne had always been friendly to me.
During my imprisonment, she had more than once smuggled comforts into
my cell, and when we were alone together she spoke to me with kindness
and pity. My aunt's heart evidently softened to me more and more, but
my uncle was implacable. To cross him once was to make him an enemy
forever; I had disappointed him in every way, and he meant to make me
feel the full force of his displeasure.
I had gathered from the servants that our first destination was
Marseilles. As we drew near that city, we passed company after company
of unhappy wretches destined for the galleys, laboring along, chained
together, and driven like cattle to the slaughter. Many of them were
condemned for no crime but that of having attended a preaching, or
prayed in their own families—that of being Protestants, in short—and
these were linked oftentimes to the most atrocious criminals, whose
society must have been harder to bear than their chains. But more than
once or twice man's cruelty was turned to the praise of God, and the
criminal was converted by the patience and the instructions of his
fellow.
As we passed one of these sad cavalcades my uncle stopped the coach
to ask some questions, and I was brought face to face with one I knew
right well. It was an aged preacher who had long known my father, and
had often been at our home in Normandy. I had no mind to have him
recognize me, and I turned away my face to hide my overflowing tears.
Monsieur did not at first recognize the old preacher, but the other
knew him in a moment, and called him by name.
"What, Monsieur Morin, is this you!" said my uncle. "I thought you were
dead!"
"I soon shall be," answered the old man calmly. "Happily for me, I am
more than seventy years old, and my prison-doors must soon be opened.
Then I shall receive my reward; but you—ah, Henri, my former pupil,
whom I so loved, how will it be with you? Oh, repent, while there is
yet time! There is mercy even for the denier and the apostate!"
For all answer, my uncle, transported with rage, lifted his cane and
struck the old man a severe blow. The very criminals cried shame upon
him, and the young officer in charge hastened to the spot, and with
expressions of pity offered his own handkerchief to the poor old man,
whose brow was cut and bleeding.
"Well," said my uncle, turning to me, and seeing, I suppose, what I
thought, "how do you like the way your former friends are treated? How
would you like to share their lot?"
"I would rather be that old man than you, monsieur!" I returned, on
fire with indignation. "I would rather be the helpless prisoner than
the coward that abuses him!"
"Coward!" repeated my uncle, white with rage.
"Dastard, if you like it better!" I returned, reckless of consequences.
"To strike a helpless man is cowardly; to strike an old and feeble man
is dastardly!"
Monsieur de Fayrolles, like others of his stamp, was easily put down
when any one stood up to him. I have seen him fairly outfaced by his
own valet. He muttered something between his teeth. MY aunt, who, to do
her justice, was greatly shocked, put a little money into the old man's
hand, and the carriage moved on.
We arrived at Marseilles about noon, and my heart bounded with joy as
I saw in the harbor a ship with English colors. Could it be that I was
to be sent back to England after all? I was soon undeceived. We drove
through the town to a convent which stood by itself, surrounded as
usual with a high wall. Here the carriage stopped. My uncle and aunt
alighted, and were admitted by the portress, and I remained in the
carriage with Susanne. A number of men who looked like carpenters were
returning from their work, and passed us, glancing at the carriage as
they did so.
"Here is another of the king's passenger birds!" I heard one of them
say.
I was trying to think what he could mean, when a sort of overseer who
was following the men looked at me, stopped, and called me by name. It
was my foster-brother, David Sablot.
"Mademoiselle! Mademoiselle!" said Susanne.
"Ah, Susanne, it is my foster-brother, perhaps the last friend I shall
over see," I pleaded. "Let me speak to him for but one moment."
"Speak quickly, then," said Susanne, and with that she turned her back
to me and began looking out of the window.
"I thought you were safe in England, Vevette," said David, in English.
"What brings you here?"
"My own folly and wickedness," I answered. "But I cannot tell you the
story now. David, if you ever loved me, go, or send to Lord Stanton, at
Stanton Court, near Biddeford, in Devonshire. Tell him you saw me here
a prisoner. Watch what they do with me, and carry him word. Tell Andrew
Corbet that I have always loved him, and always shall. But how are you
here in safety?"
"I am of too much use for my master to spare me, and so he gives me
protection," was the reply; "but it will not be for long. But what of
my father and mother—of madame? Do you know anything?"
"Maman is in heaven. Your parents are at Tre Madoc, in Cornwall, living
in comfort. My lord will tell you. David, have you a little Gospel?"
He took from an inner pocket a little thin, worn book, made for
concealment—the Gospel of St. Luke.
"Give it me—I have none," said I, and he put it into my hand.
"Lucille," said I.
"I know nothing of her," was the sorrowful answer. "Since she left
Sartilly I have heard once that she escaped, and again that she was
dead. Depend upon me, Vevette!"
Then, as Susanne made a warning sign, he pressed my hand and passed on.
The convent gate was once more opened, and I was summoned to descend.
I was led by a nun through a long passage, then along a cloister which
bounded one side of the convent burial-place, and at last into the
parlor, where sat my uncle and aunt. Behind the grating stood a lady in
conventual dress, whom I judged to be the Superior. She looked like a
fussy, important sort of personage, but she had a kind, motherly face.
Behind her stood two other nuns, in the dress of the Ursulines.
"This is the young lady," said my uncle, presenting me to the Superior.
"I trust she may be a credit to those friends who have exerted
themselves to provide for her. As you have the king's letter and
the other papers, reverend mother, it will not be needful for us to
trespass longer on your valuable time."
So saying, and without a word of leave-taking, he took my aunt's hand
and led her away.
"So you are the last!" said the Superior, addressing me not unkindly.
"You do not look so very strong for a colonist, I must say; but since
you have the king's own letter there is nothing to be said. What think
you, my sister?" turning to the elderly woman who stood behind her.
"I think his Majesty is beside himself," answered the latter, with a
bluntness which somehow surprised me while it made me like her. "She
looks much fitter to help Sister Therese in the schoolroom, or Sister
Veronique with her embroidery, than to rough it in a new country. Have
you been ill, child?"
"No, madame," I answered, "but I am weary with my journey."
"You should say reverend mother," corrected the nun not ungently. "We
do not keep worldly titles and family names here, like the ladies of
the Sacred Heart. We are all mothers and sisters. Would it not be
well, my mother, for this child to rest for a while before joining her
companions for the voyage?"
"Yes, of course; you always know best, dear sister," answered the other
lady. "Let her rest, and have a good supper."
"Stay where you are, child. There, sit down, and I will come to you
presently," said the mother assistant, as I found she was.
I was very glad indeed to take a chair, and I remained alone for some
minutes thinking over what I had heard, and puzzling myself to no
purpose over the hints as to colonists and a new country which the
Superior had thrown out. Before I had arrived at any conclusion, the
mother assistant appeared at another door from the one I had entered,
and bade me follow her. She conducted me along a gallery and to a cell,
small indeed but clean, and by no means uncomfortable.
"You can remain here for this night, and I will send you some supper,"
said she. "To-morrow you will be introduced to your companions, and to
the sisters who will have charge of you all. The vessel will not sail
for several days, so you will have time to get well rested."
And she departed, leaving me more puzzled than ever. I found a small
mail in my cell, and was glad to discover therein some changes of
raiment, all very plain, and even coarse. There were also some books
of devotion, a rosary, and a purse containing a small sum of money,
besides a considerable package of biscuits, dried fruit, and comfits,
which had evidently been thrust in after the mail was packed, probably
by Susanne.
I changed my travelling-dress, bathed my face, and brushed the dust out
of my hair. I would have given almost anything to open my Testament,
but this I dared not do. I had hardly made myself ready when a nun
entered with my supper, which was good, and arranged with neatness.
There was even a cup of chocolate. The dishes were set out on my little
table, and the nun, bidding me take my chocolate while it was fresh,
departed and closed the door. Then indeed I did venture to draw forth
my precious Gospel and read a few words—only a few—but they were like
manna in the desert.
"And while he was yet a great way off, his father saw him."
That was all. It brought the whole to my mind. I was the prodigal who
had left my father's house and wasted my substance, and now I was
brought to the husks indeed. What could I do but to act like the poor
spendthrift—arise and go to my father?
I heard a step in the gallery, and thrust my book into my bosom. The
step passed, but I dared not take it out again just then; and, sitting
down, I ate my supper with a good appetite.
"They mean to try what kindness can do in the first place," I mused.
"I dare say the good sister thought these sugared apricots would be so
many irresistible arguments. But what could she mean by what she said
about colonists and a new country?"
All at once the explanation flashed across me with the force of
certainty. I was to be sent out to Canada.
To make my meaning plain I must relate a little bit of history.
It is well-known that King Louis the Fourteenth took a deep interest in
his colony of New France, in America. He concerned himself personally
in all its affairs, public and private, and made all sorts of laws
and regulations for its benefit. He was very desirous that the
colonists should lead settled lives, instead of taking to the woods and
living with and like the savages, as a great many of them would have
preferred, to do and in fact did, in spite of him. He would have them
marry and raise large families, and promised premiums in the shape of
land, provisions, and so forth, to those who did so.
But where were the wives to come from? This also his Majesty provided,
with the help of his ministers and of the Jesuits, who were deeply
engaged in the scheme. He sent out whole ship-loads of young women
under the care of certain devoted ladies and nuns, which women, on
their arrival, were sorted out in different rooms, according to their
quality—the peasant girls in one, the young ladies in another—and the
bachelors were not only invited but required to choose wives from among
their number, according to their degree. The young women themselves had
no choice in the matter, except that the peasant girls were sometimes
allowed to go out as servants in the families of such married people as
were able to keep them, but the arrangement was not greatly approved.
This commerce was not now carried on quite so briskly as had been the
case several years before, but a ship-load was still dispatched now and
then. The girls mostly came from public institutions or from families
of peasants overburdened with children, and I suppose in general found
their condition improved by the change. The young ladies or demoiselles
were usually the inconvenient relations of good families whom it was
desirable to get rid of. I learned afterward from the Mother Superior,
who did not object to a bit of gossip, that Monsieur de Fayrolles had
represented me to the king as an illegitimate daughter of his brother,
for whom he wished to provide; and I suppose he had made me a kind of
peace-offering to his Majesty, knowing how much his heart was engaged
in this scheme. The offering was accepted, but I do not know whether or
not it answered the purpose, for which it was meant.
Strange to say, the thought of being thus sent out to Canada was rather
a relief to my mind, after I had discovered that I was not to return
to England. It was at least a respite. It gave room for something to
happen. I knew that there were also English colonies in North America,
and in my ignorance, thinking of that country as no larger than France
or England, I conceived it might be possible to effect an escape to
them. I had little notion of the vast forests and deserts, the wild
beasts and wilder men which lay between New France and New England.
At all events I was now in kind hands—that was something. I had
contrived to send word to my English friends, for that David would do
my errand I had not a doubt. I resolved to make the best of present
circumstances, to use what time I could call my own in meditation on
all I had learned, and if at last I made up my mind definitely that the
way of my parents was the true way, to confess my faith without fear of
consequences. For it must be remembered that I was still in some sense
unsettled in my belief. The arguments of Father Martien would recur
to my mind, and I did not always see how to answer them. Still I was
struggling toward the shining light at the head of the way, as Mr. John
Bunyan hath it in his quaint parable, and the light grew more clear and
the ground firmer under my feet at every effort.
When the sister came after my supper dishes she was evidently pleased
to see that I had appreciated her dainties.
"You look better, child," she said kindly.
"I am better, thank you, sister," I answered. "I feel much refreshed."
"Why, that is well," said she. "The reverend mother says you need not
attend the evening service, as you seem so much fatigued with your
journey. She advises you to go early to rest, and to-morrow she will
see and talk with you, and you shall be introduced to the holy mother
who has charge of the expedition."
"When does the ship sail?" I ventured to ask, seeing I had guessed
rightly.
"Some time next week, I believe, but I am not certain. I hope so, I am
sure; for these girls turn the house upside down, and I must say that I
don't think a marriage brokerage quite the business for nuns. But what
am I saying?" and she crossed herself. "No doubt our superiors know
best. My unlucky tongue is always getting me into trouble."
"Never mind," said I, seeing that she looked rather appealingly at me.
"I am no tale-bearer, you may be sure. I dare say the young people are
a great trouble, but I will try not to make more than I can help," I
added, smiling.
"Oh, you-you are a young lady—that is plain to be seen. Where are you
from?"
"From Normandy," I answered. "My foster-mother lived not very far from
Granville."
"I have been there," said the nun; "I was in the hospital at Sartilly."
How I longed to ask about Lucille, but I dared not do so for fear of
inconvenient questions.
"And have you ever travelled?" asked the nun, who was called, as she
told me, Sister St. Stanislaus.
I replied that I had been in England, and had therefore crossed the
Channel twice.
"And were you ill?"
"No, not at all," I answered.
"Mother Mary will be glad to hear that, for she Is always ill the whole
voyage through. She has made it two or three times. There, I must not
stay any longer. I will come in the morning to lead you to the chapel,
and afterward to the Superior's apartment, where you will see Mother
Mary of the Incarnation. * Then good-night, child. Rest well."
* Mother Mary of the Incarnation is a real historical personage,
though I have taken a liberty with her in bringing her back to France
at this time.—L. E. G.
I thanked the good sister, for whom I had already conceived a great
regard, and she withdrew. I was glad enough to obey her recommendation
and go to rest, for between fatigue and excitement I was fairly
worn-out. The bed, though narrow and hard, was very clean, and smelled
of lavender. I read in my Gospel as long as the fading light would
allow, and then, carefully concealing it, I said my prayers and
lay down, feeling greatly comforted and reassured, though I should
have been puzzled to account for my state of mind. Certainly, my
circumstances were not promising.
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