(By Annora)
A fine country to live in was la belle France, where a godly, modest,
discreet, and well-living widow could be spirited away by main force
from her sister and her servants, on the King’s highway in broad
daylight, and by soldiers wearing the King’s own uniform! ‘In the name
of the Prince!’ said they. Verily, I think it was in the name of the
Prince of darkness. They tore poor Meg from me, though we both fought
and struggled as hard as we could, in hopes of some one coming to our
rescue. Luckily my gloves were off, and I think I gave a few tolerable
scratches to somebody’s face, in spite of his abominable cache-nez. If
the servants had had a tenth part of the valour of our poor fellows who
lie dead at Newburry and Alresford we could have brought her off;
but these were but Frenchmen, and were overawed by those dragoons, or
dragons, in their cuirasses.
When poor Meg was dragged out, I held her fast, and tumbled out with
her; but even as we fell, she was rent from me, and I think I must have
been half-stunned. At any rate, I found myself flung back into our own
carriage, and the door shut upon me, while the horses were turned round,
and we were made to gallop back by the road we had come.
Our women, screaming and crying like mad things, helped me up from the
bottom of the carriage. I bade them hold their tongues and stop the
horses. The one they could not do, the other they would not. So I was
forced to open the door myself, and shout to the coachman to stop that
instant. He would not at first, but happily I saw a pistol, which one of
the wretches had dropped in the scuffle, and I threatened him with
it. Then, when my voice could be heard, I ordered the two outriders to
gallop after the coach in which my sister had been carried off, and see
where she was taken, while we made as much speed as we could after them;
but the cowardly rogues absolutely began to cry, and say that the leader
of the party had turned the horses’ heads, and declared that he would
shoot any one dead who attempted to follow.
Luckily I was in a close-fitting black cloth suit, being still in
mourning for our blessed martyr, and intending to make my toilette at
Rambouillet. I bade one of the fellows who had dismounted to give me
his cloak, and while they were still staring at me, I sprang into the
saddle, arranged the cloak, and rode off in pursuit. I knew I could keep
my seat even on a man’s saddle, for cavaliers’ daughters had had to do
strange things, and it was thus that I was obliged to come away from
my dear Berenger’s side. But then I rode between my father and Eustace.
Now, if I did not find out where my poor Margaret was gone, who was to
deliver her?
The men had heart of grace enough to follow me, more of them, indeed,
than I wanted, as of course it was better to go quietly than to have
them clattering with me. I told them to keep a little in the rear, and
I rode on, trying to see above the hedges the glancing of the helmets
of the dragoons. Across some vineyards I once caught sight of something
like a carriage and a troop of horse, quite in a different direction
from what I expected, and presently, when I came to a cross-road, I saw
by the marks in the mud and more that they must have turned that way.
I must follow by such guidance as these supplied, and fortunately
there had recently been rain, so that the wheel and hoof marks could be
tracked. To my amazement they led through many turns and twists at last
towards Paris; but to my dismay, when I came to the paved roads that
surround the city, I lost all traces. I knew I was a remarkable figure
when we were on the high roads, and so I kept back, making one of the
servants inquire at a little cabaret on the road whether a carriage,
attended by dragoons, had passed that way.
‘Yes,’ they brought me word. ‘A close carriage, no doubt containing
a state prisoner, had been escorted by dragoons on the way to the
Bastille.’
The man brought me back the answer, weeping. I scolded the fellow well
for thinking that these rogues SAYING Madame was at the Bastille made
it so, and yet it echoed my own alarm. I had at least ascertained one
point. She had not been transported to some solitary castle in the
country, but must be near at hand.
I must now go home, and see what help was to be had; but as they would
never let me pass the gates of Paris looking as I knew I must look,
I was obliged to ride back and meet the carriage, which had bidden to
follow us, and return to it in order to re-enter the city.
My mother was at St. Germain with our own Queen; who would be my
resource? I thought I had better first go home and see what Sir
Francis Ommaney’s counsel would be, and whether he thought the
English ambassador, Sir Richard Browne, could give any help, though,
unfortunately, poor Meg was no longer an English subject. There was
consternation enough when I came in with my terrible news, but at least
there was common-sense, and not shrieking. Sir Francis recommended me at
once to dress myself to go to St. Germain, while he would repair to
the embassy, since Sir Richard was the most likely person to be able
to advise him. We also thought of sending a courier to Solivet, who
was with the army on the frontier; and I put on a dress fit to obtain
admission at St. Germain. Lady Ommaney was scolding me into taking
some food before starting, and crying, because she had a bad attack of
rheumatism, and her husband would not let her go with us, when there was
a knock, and one of the women ran in. ‘News, news, Mademoiselle! News of
Madame la Vicomtesse! But ah! she is in a sad plight.’
Down I ran headlong, and whom should I find but the dear and excellent
Madame Darpent. She, who never left her home but for Church, had come to
help us in our extremity. It seemed that Meg’s dragoon (about whom she
has told her own story) had disguised himself as soon as he came within
Paris, and come in hot haste to M. Darpent, telling him how once my
brave sister had repulsed the whole crew of villains, and how he had
hurried away while the gentlemen (pretty gentlemen, indeed!) were
drinking wine to get up their courage for another encounter, in which
they were determined to succeeded since they were heavy bets at the
Prince’s camp that the pride of la grand Anglaise should be subdued
before midnight. The dragoon had not ventured to come any farther than
Maison Darpent, lest he should be missed and his comrades should not be
able to conceal his absence but he assured M. Darpent that though they
might appear to obey orders, they were resolved to give the lady every
opportunity of resistance. Was she not the wife of the best captain they
had ever had, and had she not knelt like one of the holy saints in a
mystery play?
I was for setting forth at once with Sir Francis, sure that the iniquity
could not proceed when it was made public. Of course we would have
risked it, but we might not have been able to force our way in without
authority, since the vile Abbe was on his own ground, and Madame Darpent
told us her son had devised a better plan. He had gone to the Coadjutor,
who in the dotage of his uncle, the Archbishop of Paris, exercised
all his powers. As one of their monkish clergy, this same Abbe was not
precisely under his jurisdiction, but the celebration of a marriage, and
at such an hour, in a Priory Chapel, was an invasion of the privileges
of the parish priest, and thus the Bishop of the See had every right to
interfere. And this same Coadjutor was sure to have an especial delight
in detecting a scandal, and overthrowing a plan of the Prince of Conde
and the ruling party at Court, so that if he could be found there was
little doubt of his assistance.
In order to lose no time, Clement Darpent had gone instantly in search
of him, and his good mother had come at once in her sedan to see if I
were returned, relieve our minds about my sister, and if my mother
were within reach, prepare her to go in search of Margaret, since the
Coadjutor, Bishop though he were, was still young, and not at all the
sort of man who could be suffered to bring her home without some elder
matron as her escort. Or if my mother were out of reach, Madame Darpent
was prepared, as an act of charity and goodness, to go herself in quest
of our poor Meg. The carriage had followed her to the door for the
purpose as soon as it could be got ready, and to add to my exceeding
gratitude, she was willing to take me with her. Sir Francis insisted
on going to my mother. He said it was right, but we doubted whether it
would do any good. We waited only for tidings which her son had promised
to send, and they came at last in a small billet sent by one of his
clerks. The Coadjutor had absolutely fired at the notion of such a hit
to the opposite party, and was only getting together what were called
the “First of Corinthians,” namely, the corps who had belonged to him
during the siege, and had obtained the nickname because he was titular
Archbishop of Corinth.
Clement would not leave him a moment, lest he should be diverted from
his purpose, but sent word to Madame Darpent that she, or whoever was to
escort Madame de Bellaise, was to meet him at seven o’clock in the
open space by the Barriere, showing a green light through the carriage
window, when he would show a red one.
Oh! what might not had happened before we could get there! I thought I
was used enough to suspense, I who had heard the rattle of the musketry
in more than one battle, but I should have been wild had not that best
of women held my hands and soothed me and helped me to say my prayers.
Hours seemed to go by as we sat in the dark with our lamp behind the
green curtain over the window, but at last the trampling of horses was
heard and the red light appeared. Presently Clement came to our door,
and exchanged a few words, but he said he must return to the Coadjutor,
who was in the best humour in the world.
The gates were closed, but the Coadjutor had no difficulty in passing
them, and we followed in his train. It was a dark night, but mounted
servants carried flambeaux, and we saw the light glance on the
Corinthians who guarded us. At last we stopped. We could not see then,
but I visited the place afterwards, and saw it was a tall brick house,
with a high wall round a courtyard. Here the Coadjutor’s carriage drew
up, and entrance was demanded for “Monseigneur l’Archeveque de Corinthe,
Coadjutor de Paris.” It may be supposed that the dragoon who kept the
door made no difficulty.
The carriage moved on, we drew up, and Clement, who had waited, handed
us out saying: ‘He tells me we are just in time. Be as silent as
possible.’
We found the court lighted with torches, the Coadjutor’s chaplain
arranging his purple robe, as he walked on through the doors that were
opened for him. Sir Francis led Madame Darpent, Clement gave me his had,
as we followed closely and noiselessly.
The chapel had its great wax candles alight on the altar. We could see
in, as we paused in the darkness of the antechapel, outside the screen,
while the Coadjutor advanced the door. My Margaret knelt, clinging
closely to a great stone image. The vile coward d’Aubepine was
commanding--for we heard him--his soldiers to seize her. The Abbe stood
finding the place in his book; Lamont was at a safe distance, however,
trying to induce her to rise. The Coadjutor’s clear voice was heard.
‘Benedicite, Messieurs,’ he said, and oh! the start they gave! ‘What
hole function am I interrupting, M. l’Abbe? The lady is in the attitude
of a penitent, but I was not aware that it was one of the customs of
your order to absolve thus in public.’
‘Monseigneur,’ said the Abbe, ‘neither was I aware that Episcopal
surveillance extended to religious houses.’
Margaret here broke in. She had risen to her feet, and looking at
the Archbishop, with eyes beaming in her pale face, she cried: ‘Oh!
Monseigneur, you are come to save me! These wicked men are striving to
marry me against my will.’
‘To celebrate the marriage sacrament,’ continued the Coadjutor, in his
calm sneering tone; ‘then M. l’Abbe, I suppose you have procured the
necessary permission from the curate of the parish to perform the rite
at this strange time and place? I am sorry, Messieurs, to break up so
romantic a plan, savouring of the fine days of the quatre fils Aymon,
but I must stand up for the claims of the diocese and the parish.’
M. de Lamont turned round to my sister, and made one of his lowest bows,
such as no one but a French courtier CAN make (thank Heaven!).
‘Madame,’ he said, ‘we are disconcerted, but I shall still put my trust
in the truth that beauty ever pardons the efforts of love.’
‘So it may be Monsieur,’ returned Margaret, already fully herself, and
looking as tall, white, and dignified among them as a goddess among
apes, ‘so it may be, where there is either beauty or love;’ and she made
him a most annihilating curtsey. Then turning to the Coadjutor she
said: ‘Monseigneur, I cannot express my obligations to you;’ and then
as Clement stood behind him, she added: ‘Ah, Monsieur, I knew I might
reckon on you,’ holding out her hand, English fashion. She did not see
us, but M. d’Aubepine, who was slinking off the scene, like a beaten
hound, as well he might, unaware that we were in the antechapel, caught
his foot and spur in Madame Darpent’s long trailing cloak, and came down
at full length on the stone floor, being perhaps a little flustered with
wine. He lay still for the first moment, and there was an outcry. One of
the soldiers cried out to the other as Madame Darpent’s black dress and
white cap flashed into the light:
‘It is the holy saint who has appeared to avenge the sacrilege! She has
struck him dead.’
And behold the superstition affected even the licentious
good-for-nothing Abbe. Down he dropped upon his knees, hiding his eyes,
and sobbing out: ‘Sancta Margarita, spare me, spare me! I vow thee a
silver image. I vow to lead a changed life. I was drawn into it, holy
Lady Saint. They showed me the Prince’s letter.’
He got it all out in one breath, while some of them were lifting up
d’Aubepine, and the Coadjutor was in convulsions of suppressed laughter,
and catching hold of Clement’s arm whispered: ‘No, no, Monsieur, I
entreat of you, do not undeceive him. Such a scene is worth anything!
Madame, I entreat of you,’ to Meg, who was stepping forward.
However, of course it could not last long, though as d’Aubepine almost
instantly began to swear, as he recovered his senses, Madame Darpent
unconsciously maintained the delusion, by saying solemnly in her voice,
the gravest and deepest that I ever heard in a Frenchwoman: ‘Add not
another sin, sir, to those with which you have profaned this holy
place.’
The Abbe thereupon took one look and broke into another tempest of
entreaties and vows, which Madame Darpent by this time heard. ‘M.
l’Abbe,’ she said, ‘I pray you to be silent, I am no saint, but a
friend, if Madame will allow me so to call myself, who has come to see
her home. But Oh! Monsieur,’ she added, with the wonderful dignity that
surrounded her, ‘forget not, I pray you, that what is invisible is the
more real, and that the vows and resolution you have addressed to me in
error are none the less registered in Heaven.’
Mocker as the Coadjutor habitually was, he stood impressed, and uttered
no word to mar the effect, simply saying: ‘Madame, we thank you for the
lesson you have given us! And now, I think, these ladies will be glad to
close this painful scene.’
Meg, who with Madame Darpent, had satisfied herself that the wretch
d’Aubepine had not hurt himself anything like as much as he deserved,
declared herself ready and thankful to go away. The Abbe and Lamont both
entreated that she would take some refreshment before returning home,
but she shuddered, and said she could taste nothing there, and holding
tight by my arm, she moved away, though we paused while Madame Darpent
was kneeling down and asking the Archbishop to bless her. He did so, and
her spirit seemed to have touched his lighter and gayer one, and to
have made him feel what he was, for he gave the benediction with real
solemnity and unaffected reverence for the old lady.
He himself handed her into the carriage, and he must greatly have
respected her, for though he whispered something to her son about the
grand deliverance of the victim through St. Margaret and the Dragon (an
irresistible pun on the dragoon), yet excellent story as could have been
made of the free-thinking Abbe on his knees to the old Frondeur’s widow,
he never did make it public property. I believe that it is quite true,
as my sister’s clever friend Madame de Sevigne declares, that there
was always more good in Cardinal de Retz, as he now is called, than was
supposed.
Poor Meg had kept up gallantly through all her terrible struggle of many
hours, but when we had her safely in the carriage in the dark, she sank
back like one exhausted, and only held my hand and Madame Darpent’s to
her lips by turns. I wanted to ask whether she felt ill or hurt in any
way, but after she had gently answered, ‘Oh, no, only so thankful, so
worn out,’ Madame Darpent advised me not to agitate her by talking to
her, but to let her rest. Only the kind, motherly woman wanted to know
how long it was since she had eaten, and seeing the light of a little
CABARET on the road, she stopped the carriage and sent her son to fetch
some bread and a cup of wine.
For I should have said that M. Darpent had been obliged to return in the
same carriage with us, since he could not accompany the Coadjutor on
his way back. He wished to have gone outside, lest his presence should
incommode our poor Meg; but it had begun to rain, and we could not
consent. Nor was Meg like a Frenchwoman, to want to break out in fits
the moment the strain was over.
He brought us out some galettes, as they call them, and each of us
sisters had a draught of wine, which did us a great deal of good.
Then we drove on in the dark as fast as we could, for the Coadjutor’s
carriage had passed us while we were halting, and we wanted to enter the
gates at the same time with him.
I sat beside my sister, holding her hand, as it seemed to give her a
sense of safety; Madame Darpent was on her other side, Clement opposite.
We kept silence, for Madame Darpent declared that no questions ought to
be asked of Madame de Bellaise till the next morning.
Presently we heard an unmistakable snoring from the old lady’s corner,
and soon after I felt my sister’s fingers relax and drop mine, so that
I knew she slept. Then I could not but begin to tell, in the quiet and
stillness, how my dear brother would thank and bless him for what he had
done for us.
I am an old woman now, but I have only to shut my eyes and it all comes
back on me--the dark carriage, the raindrops against the window glancing
in the light of the flambeaux, the crashing of the wheels, and the
steady breathing of the sleepers, while we two softly talked on, and our
hearts went out to one another, so that we knew our own feelings for one
another.
I think it came of talking of Eustace and his not being able to keep
back, that, though Eustace was in some sort the guiding star of his
life, yet what he had done for us was not merely for my brother’s sake,
but for another much more unworthy, had he only known it.
Then he found he had betrayed himself, and asked my pardon, declaring
that he had only meant to watch me at a distance (poor me), knowing well
the vast gulf between our stations. What could I answer but that
this was only French nonsense; that we knew better in England what a
gentleman meant, and that I was sure that my brother would freely and
joyfully give me to him, poor, broken, ruined cavalier exile as I was?
And then we got hold of each other’s hands, and he called me all sorts
of pretty names in French and in English; and I felt myself the proudest
and happiest maiden in France, or England to boot, for was not mine the
very noblest, most upright and disinterested of hearts?
Only we agreed that it would be better to let no one at Paris know what
was between us until my brother should return. We knew that he would
be the most likely person to obtain my mother’s consent, and he really
stood in the place of a father to me; while if we disclosed it at once
there was no knowing what my mother might not attempt in his absence,
and his mother would never permit us to be in opposition to mine. She
would not understand that, though I might not disobey my mother, it was
quite impossible that my feelings and opinions should be guided by one
of different religion, nation, and principles altogether.
However, we agreed to write to my brother in Holland as soon as we could
find a safe conveyance, and when there were signs of waking on the
part of our companions we unlocked the hands that had been clasping one
another so tightly.
(Finished by Margaret.)
So you thought I was asleep, did you, Mistress Nan? I suppose after all
these years you will not be ready to box my ears for having heard? It
was no feigning; I really was so worn and wearied out that I lay back on
the cushions they had arranged for me in a sort of assoupissement, only
at first able to feel that I was safe, and that Annora was with me.
She says that I dropped her hand. Well, perhaps I may have dozed for a
moment, but it seems to me that I never lost the knowledge of the sound
of the wheels, nor of the murmuring voices, though I could not stir,
nor move hand nor foot, and though I heard it all, it was not till I
was lying in bed the next morning that I recollected any part of it, and
then it was more as if I had dreamt it than as a reality.
Moreover, Annora was hovering over me, looking perfectly innocent, and
intent on making me rest, and feeding me upon possets, and burning to
hear my story. Then came my mother from St. Germain, having received a
courier who had been dispatched at dawn. She embraced me and wept over
me, and yet--and yet I think there mingled with her feeling something of
vexation and annoyance. If I were to be carried off at all by a man of
rank and station, it would have been almost better if he had succeeded
in marrying me than that the affair should be a mere matter of gossip.
Certainly, that my rescue should be owing to one of the factious
lawyers, and to that mischievous party leader the Coadjutor, was an
unmixed grievance. After all my follies at Nid de Merle, I was quite
sufficiently in ill odour with the Court to make it needful to be very
careful. If I had only waited till morning, the Queen would have taken
care to deliver me without my having given a triumph which the Frondeurs
would not fail to make the most of.
‘Where should I have been in the morning?’ I said. ‘Did she not know
that the horrible wager related to midnight?’
She supposed any woman could take care of herself. At any rate I had
contrived to offend everybody. The Prince was paramount at Court, and
carried all before him. Mademoiselle, in her devotion to him, and the
Queen-Regent would never forgive my trafficking with the Frondeurs.
On the whole, my mother really thought that the best way to regain my
favour or even toleration, would be to accept M. de Lamont with a good
grace, since he was certainly distractedly in love with me, and if I
fell into disgrace with the authorities, I might have my son and the
administration of his property taken away from me in a still more
distressing manner, whereas it would only depend on myself to rule M. de
Lamont.
‘I have only to say,’ observed Annora, ‘that if she were to do such a
thing I should never speak to her again.’
Whereupon my mother severely reproved my sister, declaring that it was
all her fault, and that she had gone beyond all bounds when left to
herself, and would be a disgrace to the family.
Annora coloured furiously, and said she did not know what might be
esteemed a disgrace in France, but she should certainly do nothing that
would disgrace her English name. Then it flashed on me that what had
passed in the carriage had been a reality, and I saw what she meant.
Of course, however, I did not betray my perception. Disputes between my
mother and sister were what we all chiefly dreaded; it was so impossible
to make them see anything from the same point of view, so I thought it
best to turn the conversation back to my own affairs, by saying that I
thought that to marry M. de Lamont would only make matters worse, and
that no loss of favour or any other misfortune could be equal to that of
being bound to such a husband as he had shown himself.
I had them all against me except my sister and my English friends, and
my saintly guide, Father Vincent de Paul, who assured me that I was by
no means bound to accept a man like that; and as for silencing scandal,
it was much better to live it down. That devout widow, Madame de
Miramion, had endured such an abduction as mine at hands of Bussy
Rabutin, and had been rescued by her mother-in-law, who had raised the
country-people. No one thought a bit the worse of her for it, and she
was one of the foremost in her works of charity.
This gave me the comfort of knowing that I was right, and I knew besides
that such a marriage would be a sore grief to my brother, so I resolved
to hold out against all persuasions; but it was a wretched time that now
began, for Lamont would not desist from persecuting me with his suit,
and I had no remission from him either at Court or in my own house, for
if I excluded him my mother admitted him. My mother dragged me to Court
as a matter of form, but I was unwelcome there, and was plainly shown
that it was so.
The Queen could not forgive me for being rescued by the Frondeurs;
Mademoiselle was in the Prince’s interest; the Prince was dominant, and
all his satellites made it a point of honour that none of them should
fail in carrying any point. Even Cecile d’Aubepine followed the stream.
Her husband was very angry with her, and said I had put on grand airs,
and made myself ridiculous; and the foolish little thing not only obeyed
but believed him, though he neglected her as much as ever. I never dared
to drive, scarcely ever to walk out, without escort enough to prevent
any fresh attempt at abduction; and even my poor Gaspard was in
disgrace, because he was not courtier enough to bear in silence taunts
about his mother.
I had only one thing to look forward to, and that was the return of my
brother. The new King of England had arrived, and we trusted that he
would appear with him; but alas! no, he was detained on the King’s
business in Jersey, and could not come.
Meantime Annora kept her own counsel, and though she was my only
supporter, except of course of Ommaneys, in my resistance, the want of
confidence made a certain separation between us. I do not think she had
any secret communication with Clement Darpent--they were too honourable
for that--but she drew more to old Lady Ommaney than to me during this
time.
Reports began to circulate that the Prince’s insolence had gone too
far, and that the Cardinal had been holding secret conferences with the
Coadjutor, to see whether his help and that of Paris could be relied
on for the overthrow of the Prince. I remember that Annora was in high
spirits, and declared that now was the time for honest men if they only
knew how to profit by it.