wealth I was well aware. And indeed the girl has sufficient worth of
her own to be loved for herself only. Your delicacy, dear friend, is
therefore not compromised; if you could aspire to her heart and conquer
it, truly you need not blush at her bringing you a rich dowry. The
heart which you possess is worth more than the paltry money to which
you fear to aspire, as if it were too much. My daughter cannot be
happier, if she marries with a man she does not love, though he has a
million. She will only be rendered happy by the mind, nobleness, true
love, and solicitude of her beloved.”
“And--” said Clementine, bounding in with her charming simplicity,
taking my hand, and looking affectionately in the eyes of her kind
mother.
“You have chosen well,” said Madame de Sonnes, embracing us both; “you
always are more solicitous for your mother’s happiness than for your
own.”
Clementine was now my betrothed; the whole family treated me with the
greatest affection; I was looked upon as the beloved son, and possessed
the esteem of the whole town. I had attained my supreme object, and it
would be wearisome to describe the variety of my enjoyments.
Letters had arrived from London to the Mareschale de Montreval, as
governor of the province, for my late father, together with the deeds
of a large inheritance left him by a brother who had died in the West
Indies. I hastened for a few days to Nismes to the mareschale by his
order. He only showed me the letter from the London banker and a copy
of the will, without being able to give me any further particulars.
The property had been already remitted to the government of Languedoc
by draughts on the bank in Paris. This made me the possessor of an
annual income of 4000 livres.
Although aware that one of my uncles, in his early days, had gone to
America, from whence no news had ever arrived, I could scarcely believe
that he had saved so large a fortune. Moreover the obscurity which
enveloped several points requisite to be known in the account from
London, inspired me with some suspicion as to this unexpected wealth,
considered as an inheritance, though it appeared to me too large for a
present. I wrote both to the London banker and the magistrate of the
province in America, where my uncle was reported to have died; but
never discovered more than I knew already. Hence I could not help
thinking that Madame Bertollon had more to do with the inheritance than
my uncle.
The mareschale appeared almost angry at my scruples. “Enjoy your
undisputed property and have a dozen masses for uncle,” he said; “and
that you may not live altogether idle on your property, come to me and
accept the first situation in my office. One condition, however, I
must make, viz: that you live in my palace. I must see you daily, my
affairs are numerous, and your advice will be valuable to me.”
I thanked the mareschale for this honourable distinction, and only
asked time for consideration before accepting a situation to which my
attainments were not adequate. He overwhelmed me with civilities, and
dismissed me with kindly menaces in case I did not soon resolve to
comply with his wishes.
M. Etienne, my good old uncle, was elated with joy when he heard of the
mareschale’s offer to me.
“When you, Colas, came to me as a boy, in your smock-frock and wooden
shoes, and so stood before me in your poverty, I was then touched in my
heart, and heard, as it were, the voice of the spirit within me,
commanding me to adopt you, because you would one day be the guardian
angel of the oppressed believers. Behold, Colas, the Lord has done
great things for you; you now stand again on the same spot of the poor
miller’s house, and are a highly honoured, learned, and rich man.
Hesitate no longer to accept the offer of the mareschale. It is not
his will, no, it is the will of God; it is not his calling, but it is
the call of Heaven, which comes to you to afford comfort to the gospel
Christians.”
My uncle and his amiable family (in whose circle one daughter was
missing, having been married), as well as his friends, who were all
secret Protestants, did not desist in their most urgent remonstrances
with me to accept the situation. I was obliged partly to promise that
I would accept it; but it was still important to consult Clementine and
her mother on the subject.
I had no sooner made the mareschale’s proposal known to them, than both
were at once agreed that I must not let slip an opportunity which
promised me a larger sphere of activity.
“We will both accompany you to Nismes,” said Clementine; “you will no
doubt remember the amphitheatre and the house of Albertas?--but to live
with the mareschale--no, that will not do, you must refuse that
politely.”
And so it happened; we went together to Nismes, I entered on my
situation, and I was permitted to find recreation in Clementine’s
society.
Wealth, authority, and influence over the affairs of the province,
prepared for me the happiest lot man could imagine. Friendship and
love completed my felicity; but in the picture of my life, at that
period, there was almost too much light, too little shade, and all
became a bright, rosy monotony.
The death of Clementine’s grandfather occasioned a family mourning, and
our union was postponed, out of respect, for six months. But this
could not darken our happiness; we saw each other daily, and nothing in
the world could separate us.
During the first few months the Mareschale de Montreval treated me with
marked favour. Still I could not prevail upon myself to approach him
with confidence, or to return his kind sentiments with equal
cordiality. His affable demeanour had something terrible in it, and in
his smile there was always something threatening. He was a man of
genius and judgment, but yet beclouded by prejudices which were sacred
to him, and which were probably owing to his monkish education in his
early life. Enervated by former excesses, he was sickly, fearful of
death, tormented by dark imaginations and suspicions. He never
scrupled to commit the most arbitrary acts, to be severe even to
cruelty, and to sacrifice the welfare of many to his caprice; but at
the same time he professed to be very religious. The monks were his
favourite associates, and ruled him without his suspecting it. He
never neglected a mass, and passed for a most devout man. He seldom
smiled, was generally grave and cold; and there was something
commanding in his calm demeanour. The more I knew him, the more I
privately disliked him. A man like Bertollon, without religion,
without God, without eternity, and without moral principles, who,
acting only on the suggestions of prudence, could see with an egotist
smile a whole despairing world sink for his gain, is not more
atrocious, not more dangerous, than a man of the world, filled with
bigotry, like Montreval. The atheist and bigot, who do not acknowledge
moral principles and eternal right, weigh equally in the scale of
morals, and are equally poisonous to society. Both without feeling for
the true dignity of man, without regard for humanity, spin their subtle
web between the relations of society, and rob and kill with honour.
Neither fear God, for the one does not believe in him, the other tries
to appease his wrath with prayers and masses, and in the temple
cleanses himself of the sins which he has committed without.
Even during the first days of my residence in Nismes, I was surrounded
by a holy troop of monks, who feared my influence on the mareschale as
being hostile to their views. But they perceived how little I cared
for this influence, and gradually left me to myself. They, however,
continued very friendly, praised my character to the mareschale, and
ended by expressing their pity I was a man without religion.
The Protestants of Nismes looked upon me as their leader and protector.
They showed me extravagant honours, which could not fail to excite the
suspicion of the mareschale, even if he had been less suspicious than
he was. They became bolder in their words and deeds. More than once I
succeeded in obtaining his pardon for their inconsiderate acts; but
instead of being warned by such occurrences, their fanaticism, in
frequent combat with their persecutors, and a secret confidence in my
protection, only rose higher, and it was in vain for me to represent to
them the danger which they wantonly prepared for themselves.
“No!” cried M. Etienne, my uncle; “no, where God is, there is no
danger. Oh! Colas, be not afraid of men, for the Lord is with you.
‘He who confesses me before men, him will I also confess before my
Father,’ says the Saviour of the world. In France, the gospel grain of
mustard-seed will spring up, as on the mountains of Switzerland and in
the forests of Germany; but we want men like Zuinglius, Calvin, and
Luther, who do not tremble before the princes of this world. And you,
Alamontade, be like them, and God will be your strong fortress.”
Once, when I was again obliged to intercede for the Protestants, the
mareschale asked me, with a penetrating glance, “You are not a heretic,
I hope?” He refused my solicitations, and from that time became more
reserved towards me.
I perceived how little good I could do under existing circumstances,
but, on the contrary, how injurious my presence in Nismes, my office,
and the false notion of my influence must be to the followers of
Calvin, who relied upon me with too much confidence. This brought me
to the resolution of requesting my discharge; but Madame de Sonnes and
Clementine prevented me from doing so by their entreaties until the
winter had passed. The mareschale was in Montpellier, and his absence
rendered me happier, but the Protestants still more daring.
On the Palm Sunday of the year 1703, the mareschale, who had recently
returned from Montpellier, invited me to a banquet in his castle, and
though not feeling quite well I determined on going.
In the morning I said smiling to Clementine, “To-morrow I shall ask for
my discharge, and whatever your mother may say, it must be done
to-morrow, and then, Clementine!----”
“And then?”---- she asked.
“We will no longer delay our union. We may now rejoice with propriety
since you have this day left off your black dress. Therefore in a week
you will be my wife. And then,” I continued, “we will leave this
melancholy Nismes, and go to our new estate near Montpellier. Spring
is coming with its beauty; we must live amid rural nature.”
And this was resolved on, and sealed by a kiss.
At this moment I was called out. I quitted the room; I found that my
uncle had come, and requested a private interview in my own apartment.
“Colas,” said he, “this is Palm Sunday, and you must come with me.”
“I cannot,” was my reply, “for I am invited to dine with the
mareschale.”
“And I,” said he, with solemn voice. “I invite you to the holy supper.
No grandee of this earth will there sit at table with us, but we shall
be assembled in Jesus’ name, and he will be in the midst of us. All of
us, some hundreds in number, with our wives and children, celebrate
this morning the holy sacrament in my mill near the Carmelite gate.”
I was terrified, and exclaimed: “What presumption! Do you not know
that the mareschale is in Nismes?”
“We know it, and the Almighty God is there also.”
“Will you then designedly plunge yourselves into misery and a dungeon?
The law forbids most strictly all meetings of this kind, and threatens
death.”
“What law? The law of the mortal king? Thou shalt obey God rather
than man.”
In this way my uncle knew how to surmount all my objections, by
biblical quotations, and the more I urged the unlawfulness and danger
of such meetings, and the more vividly I described the probable
consequences, the more zealous he became.
“When Jesus was betrayed,” he exclaimed, “and when the traitor stood
near him, and when he knew they were preparing to take him, then, oh!
Colas, surrounded by the danger of certain death, he instituted the
holy sacrament. And should we, who would be the disciples of Jesus,
tremble? No, never; if all hell were in arms it should not terrify us.”
I could not bring my uncle to his senses; he called me an apostate, a
hypocrite, a papist, and left me in a rage.
I returned to Clementine. She had seen my uncle, and the vexation
expressed in all his gestures; she inquired the cause which I dared not
disclose to her. Amidst her innocent caresses, my fear and uneasiness
gradually left me. She told me that her mother agreed to all my
wishes; this cheered me still more. On Clementine’s bosom I dreamed of
the peaceful happiness of the future.
Withdrawn from the tumult of the world and its passions, I proposed to
live alone with my young wife, surrounded by blooming nature, by love
and friendship, and in the pursuit of science.
How happy we were both in these moments! “Oh! Clementine,” said I, “no
throne is indeed required to make others happy, but only the will. We
may be useful even in a small and insignificant sphere. We will visit
the abodes of poverty. I shall again defend the cause of accused
innocence, and a kiss shall be my reward when I have succeeded in
accomplishing any good. Our library furnishes an inexhaustible store
for the mind, and our harp shall sound in the evening, to record the
unenvied felicity of two loving souls in the shade of our own grove.
The poor shall eat at our table, and those consoled in their griefs
shall be our companions. Surely, Clementine, we shall never yearn for
the cold splendour of this palace. And some day, you, Clementine--the
mere thought vibrates rapture through me--some day, Clementine, you
will be a mother. Mother! oh, Clementine!”--Her kisses interrupted my
words.
At this moment my servant entered pale as death and breathless.
“What is the matter with you?” I asked.
“Sir,” he faltered, “the Calvinists have met for their interdicted
worship in the mill of M. Etienne near the Carmelite gate.”
I was much alarmed. Lo, then, it was betrayed. “And what else,” I
cried.
“The mill is surrounded by dragoons, and all within are prisoners.
Only think, the Mareschale de Montreval is there himself. The preacher
and a few others of the secured heretics endeavoured to escape through
the window, but the mareschale gave the signal, and the dragoons fired.”
“Fired?” I cried. “Was any one killed?”
“Four of them lie dead on the spot,” was the servant’s reply.
Without asking any further questions, I took my hat and stick.
Clementine wept and trembled; she would not let me leave her, turned
pale, and clung speechless and in great anguish round my neck.
Madame de Sonnes came in. I told her of this frightful occurrence, and
that I was resolved to hasten there in order to move the mareschale to
humanity. She praised my resolution, entreating me to fly thither
without delay, and spoke consoling words to Clementine.
As I departed, I looked back, and saw Clementine pale and trembling in
her mother’s arms. I returned, kissed her pale lips, and hastened away.
When I reached the gate, I had to force my way through a throng of
people who stood crowded together, gaping with mingled curiosity,
terror, joy, and expectation.
With cold shuddering I beheld above the crowd the glittering arms of
the dragoons, who surrounded, three deep, my beloved uncle’s mill.
High above all I saw the mareschale on horseback, surrounded by
noblemen; he seemed grave and thoughtful.
“My lord!” I exclaimed, when I reached him.
He turned round on hearing me, looked at me, and pointing with his
stick to the mill, said, without changing a feature, “The wretches!
Now they are caught.”
“What do you intend doing, my lord?” I asked.
“I have been considering for the last quarter of an hour.”
“Oh! my lord,” I said; “it is true these infatuated men have broken the
laws, but truly they are more the objects of your contempt than your
wrath. Be magnanimous, my lord, and the transgressors will fall at
your feet in repentance, and never again----”
“What!” interrupted the mareschale, “these men are incorrigible. They
are rebels, furious, audacious rebels. Am I to let this accursed weed
luxuriate until it can perpetrate a second Michelade?”[2]
“No, my lord,” I said, seizing his hand, which was hanging down; “you
are too just to attribute to these unfortunate persons cruelties which
happened nearly a century and a half ago.”
“It is time to set a severe example,” said the mareschale, who to this
moment had been undecided. He withdrew his hand, rode a few paces
forward without further noticing me, and cried, with a loud voice,
“Fire the mill!”
Cold with terror, I staggered after him, seized the reins of his horse,
and cried, “For God’s sake mercy, mercy.”
“Begone,” he cried, casting a furious look at me, and flourishing his
stick as if he would strike me. I let go the horse and fell upon my
knees before this cold-blooded demon, crying, “Mercy!”
I heard the crackling and hissing of the flames, saw the thick clouds
of smoke rolling over the roof of the mill, and then heard the horrible
cries of those enclosed within. I sprang up again and clasped the
mareschale’s knees, but God only knows what I cried to him in my
anguish. He heard me not, he had no humanity; the pious tiger only
looked upon the burning mill.
Soon my voice was drowned amidst the wild roar around, the cries of
those consigned to death, and the thunder of the carabines. Those who
endeavoured to escape the flames were shot down by the dragoons.
I started up and ran to the mill. At this moment a girl threw herself
from the window. I caught her in my arms; it was Antonia my uncle’s
youngest daughter.
“You are saved, Antonia,” said I, carrying away the poor creature
through the smoke and fire, and came up, without knowing it, to the
mareschale.
“The dog!” he cried, “I always said he was one of them!” I knew not he
spoke of me.
“Down with them!” he shouted again. Two dragoons tore the fainting
girl from my arms, and while she lay on the ground these ruffians shot
the innocent creature at my feet.
“It serves the cursed heretics right!” said the mareschale calmly,
close behind me.
“Oh! you atrocious monster! how will you answer for this deed before
your and our king,--before your and our God?” I cried, foaming with
rage.
He galloped up to me, gave me a blow on my head with his stick, and
rode over me. Half stunned, I imagined he had given orders to kill me.
I started up and snatched a carabine from the hands of a dragoon to
defend my life. No one dared to lay hands on me, in spite of the
mareschale’s exclaiming repeatedly, “Secure him! secure him!”
While looking around me with consternation, I beheld--oh! horrible
sight--I beheld my uncle with blood streaming from his head, standing
over the corpse of Antonia; I only recognised him by his figure and
clothing. He uttered a frightful shriek towards heaven, and sank
amidst musket shots over the body of his beloved child.
I was going to address the mareschale, but my tongue was paralysed.
Raising my eyes and my arm with the musket to heaven, I received a
blow, and sank down perfectly insensible.
Until then, I had still preserved my faith in humanity, and blindly
devoted myself to this belief. Impressed with the best works of the
greatest minds of our time, I had lulled myself into happy illusions.
I had believed mankind much more humane and freer from the bonds of
barbarism. Indeed, I was the subject of the most lauded monarch of the
world, and France called the reign of Louis XIV. her Golden Age. Alas!
Montreval was one of his governors, and the Palm Sunday of 1703, a day
of that Golden Age. About 200 men were burnt alive and shot on that
day, and even the infant on its mother’s breast was not spared. All
the property of the murdered was confiscated, and Montreval’s cruelty
was crowned with laurels by the royal hand.
When I had recovered my consciousness and could discover the objects
around, I found myself among strangers, and my wounded head bandaged.
Now and then, during my insensibility, I felt pain, and dimly perceived
that people were employed about me; but this consciousness soon left
me, and I relapsed again into stupor as into a heavy sleep.
“By my faith thou hast a tough life.” These were the first words I
heard, as they were uttered by a dirty old fellow, who was standing by
me offering medicine.
I did not see Clementine. I was in a narrow chamber, on a hard, coarse
bed.
“Where am I then?” I asked.
“Thou art with me,” said the fellow. I now, for the first time,
remembered the fatal event to which I owed my present situation.
“Am I then a prisoner?”
“To be sure, and quite right too!” answered my keeper.
“Does Madame de Sonnes know of this? Has she not sent here? May I not
see her?”
“Dost thou know any one here? Where does she live?”
“In the Rue de Martin. The house Albertas.”
“Thou fool! there is no Rue de Martin in all Marseilles. Thou art
still feverish, I think, or dost thou not know that thou art in
Marseilles?”
“In Marseilles? What, in Marseilles am I? Am I not in Nismes? How
long have I been here?”
“May be three weeks. I can easily believe that thou, poor devil, dost
not know of it. Thou hast been raving in a burning fever till last
night. Thou must have a strong constitution. We thought we should
have to bury thee to-day.”
“What am I to do here?”
“When thou art recovered thou wilt put on that dress; dost thou know
it?”
“That is a galley slave’s dress. What? pray tell me, am I then--I
will--I cannot believe--have I been sentenced?”
“Perhaps so; only for twenty-nine years to the oars, as they say.”
The fellow spoke too truly. As soon as I recovered, my terrible
sentence was announced to me. I was condemned to punishment in the
galleys for twenty-nine years, for menaces, and murderous attempts on
the life of the Mareschale de Montreval; also for the crime of being a
secret Protestant, and for having committed sundry peculations, for the
benefit of the heretics, in the office where I had influence, by virtue
of my situation.
I sighed, yet conscious of my innocence, put on the dress without pain.
My tears flowed only for the fate of Clementine. I endeavoured to send
her a few lines, which I wrote as a farewell, on a scrap of paper, with
a pencil I borrowed. But alas! I was too poor to bribe my keeper; he
took the paper, read it, and laughing, tore it to pieces, saying,
“There is no post for love letters here.”
I was now put in chains, and led, together with some companions in
misfortune, to the galley appointed for us in the harbour. It was a
beautiful evening, and the city displayed its splendour in the radiance
of the setting sun. Amidst the dark green of the sloping mountains
surrounding the harbour, which was crowded with the vessels of all
nations, glistened innumerable snow-white villas, and between the
almond and olive trees of the Bastides, waved a thousand silken
pennons, displaying all the colours of the rainbow; while through the
mouth of the harbour, the view was lost in the immeasurable expanse of
the ocean.
The splendour of this spectacle dazzled me, and filled me with
melancholy. The shores of my native land seemed to display all their
glory, only to make me feel more vividly what I had lost. All around
breathed joy, I only was for ever joyless, and I saw no limits to my
misery, except on the brink of the distant grave.
I passed the night sleepless; with the early dawn our galley left the
harbour and when the sun arose above the ruddy waves, I lost sight of
Marseilles. I and five other slaves were chained to the oars.
What a fate! To be for ever separated from all the friends and
playmates of my youth,--to be separated alas! from thee, Clementine,
cast from the lap of wealth upon the hard bench, forgotten by all the
happy, dishonoured, and among malefactors, to hear now, instead of
Clementine’s delightful conversation, only the curses and ribaldry of
low thieves, murderers, smugglers, and robbers;--to be without books,
without information as to the progress of science, my mind left the
prey of itself, without hope;--to hear the terrible clanking of my
chains instead of the magic of music and Clementine’s harp! Surely,
death itself is not so bitter as this dreadful change.