CLEMENCE.
“Vive, vive le Roi!
A bas la République!”--_Vendéan War-Song._
It is the fair and pleasant land of France--a land of corn-fields and
orchards and sunny garden-plots, where quiet villages nestle in shady
nooks, and old châteaux stand proudly amidst their sheltering woods.
You feel everywhere that this land has been for many a century tilled
and cared for by the hand of man; that generation after generation
sleeps in peace beneath the shadow of its gray old churches. Long ages
of toil and civilization have left their impress here, and the present
is the heir of a glorious and venerable past.
Yet, perhaps no country has ever suffered more. War after war has
swept over it; cruel oppression made the Revolution a terrible
necessity; and, again, the excesses of the Revolution made men forget
the crimes of the despotism that engendered it. And in the days of
which we write there brooded over all the portentous shadow of another
despotism--almost crushing enough to recall the worst days of Louis,
falsely called the Magnificent, and of his thrice-accursed successor.
Still, even in those evil times many a secluded nook seemed to be
hidden in the hollow of His hand, so quietly did it slumber throughout
all--escaping not indeed occasional suffering, but anything like
general ruin.
One such nook--a little pastoral village not a hundred miles from
Paris--had in its immediate neighbourhood a spot yet more secluded,
where a noble family of the “old _régime_” who otherwise might have
wandered homeless exiles from their native land, found a welcome
refuge. The simple four-roomed cottage, with the vine trained over its
tiny porch, would have been an unpretending dwelling for the village
smith or carpenter. Yet few could have looked on it attentively, even
from the outside, and none could have entered it, without feeling sure
that its inmates inherited the traditions of centuries of refinement
and cultivation.
The morning sun of one of the earliest days of 1812 was streaming
into the little porch. The weather was mild and beautiful--unusually
so for the season. One person was enjoying it thoroughly--a lad of
about seventeen, who reclined in the porch, intent upon a book, while
the sunshine streamed brightly over him, and the breeze gently lifted
his soft brown hair. The expression of his face was rather sweet than
strong--his forehead was good, his eyes large and dark, his mouth
well-formed and sensitive, but lacking as yet the look of resolution
that might come with riper manhood.
So absorbed was he in his book that he did not hear an approaching
footstep; but then it was a very light one. The young girl who came
out from the parlour to join her brother was his senior by a year, and
looked even more. She was tall, but her slight figure was well formed
and graceful. Her eyes were dark, like her brother’s; and her hair a
glossy brown, very fine and soft. It did not wave or float, but was
neatly coiled about a head which might have served a sculptor for his
model. There was no weakness in the delicate lines of her face, though
there was much tenderness. Her complexion was pale; but there was in
her cheek a hint of possible colour, which came and went with every
passing emotion. No one thought of calling Clémence de Talmont pretty,
but in the eyes of the few who loved her she was beautiful as the
dream of a poet.
“Henri,” she said, in a gentle but decided voice--“Henri.”
He looked up slowly, and said with a reluctant air, “Surely it is not
time for breakfast.”
“Mother has had her coffee, and yours is ready whenever you wish for
it. It is not _that_--”
“I had rather wait,” said Henri, ignoring her last words. “I want to
see the end of Pizarro’s expedition;” and he turned over a page of his
book.
“What are you reading?” asked Clémence, suppressing something like a
sigh.
“Les Incas de Marmontel--a beautiful book,” he added, rousing himself.
“Those old heathen monarchs, who lived for their people, tried to make
others happy, placed their glory in being loved, not feared, _ought_ to
have had a better fate.”
“I think _you_ might find a better book,” returned his sister, with a
slight tinge of asperity. “Marmontel was a friend of the Revolution--a
philosopher, a deist.”
“Ah, sister mine, you would rather see me reading the Confessions of
St. Augustine,” said Henri with a good-humoured laugh. “But there is a
time for all things; and I cannot think ill of books that make me love
God, and his beautiful world, and the creatures he has made.”
“True, brother,” said Clémence earnestly and with a rising colour;
“only take care that the God you love is the God of the Bible and the
Church, not the God of the philosophers and the _savants_. But”--after
a pause, and with a change of tone--“but, Henri, will you not run down
to the village before our mother leaves her room, and see whether there
is any placard on the Mairie?”
Henri closed his book and stood up, the anxiety in his sister’s face
reflecting itself, though faintly, upon his. “Why such haste?” he
asked.
“Babette told me this morning that she hears there is a new ‘senatus
consultus.’”
Henri’s thoughts turned rapidly from the mild sway of the Incas, of
which he had been dreaming, to the iron despotism of Napoleon, for
him no dream, but a stern and terrible reality. “If there were twenty
conscriptions,” he muttered hastily, “you know I am under age.”
“I do _not_ know it,” Clémence answered. “The curé says he fears all
are liable who will complete their eighteenth year in 1812. That is why
I want you to go and see whether the placard is there, before we alarm
our mother. But take your coffee first, brother. I will bring it to
you, if you like.”
She brought him a cup of fragrant café-au-lait, and a fresh roll,
prepared that morning by her own hands. He had just begun to eat and
drink when a voice from an adjoining room--like her own, gentle and
musical, but decided--called, “Clémence.”
“Don’t delay about the Mairie,” she said as she hastened in. “I will
tell our mother you are going for a walk.”
Grave, sweet, and dignified was the lady who stood at the table in the
little parlour. Her face was worn and pale; the hair that appeared
beneath her snowy cap was slightly silvered; and in her demeanour
something of antique stateliness combined with the peculiar and
inimitable grace of the old _régime_.
A dress of purple brocade, rich and stiff, lay on the table before her.
“Come here, Clémence,” she said; “I want to make this dress fit you.”
But Clémence shrank back. “Oh no, no, mother!” she said, with an air of
pain.
“But yes,” returned Madame de Talmont, in a quiet, peremptory voice.
“Not a word, my daughter; it is yours.” And seating herself, she took
up a pair of scissors, and began to rip off some antiquated trimming
from the sleeve.
Clémence felt almost as if a living thing she loved was being hurt.
Tears quivered in her eyes, and the colour rose to her cheek as she
laid her hand on her mother’s arm. “Mother, listen to me,” she pleaded.
“Do not touch that gown. It would never suit _me_. Is it well, think
you, that I should go to mass on Sundays looking like a princess, while
the few who know of our existence know also that we have scarcely bread
to eat from day to day? Is it suitable? And besides, dear mother,” she
continued timidly, “you know I do not love gay clothing. I do not think
it becomes a girl who, however unworthily, still desires and endeavours
to lead a religious life.”
“Be as religious as you please, my dear daughter,” said Madame de
Talmont, with a slight smile, “but be dutiful also, and believe that I
know how Mademoiselle de Talmont ought to appear at mass much better
than she does herself.”
“Mother, that is not all,” Clémence resumed. “I had rather keep that
gown of yours all my life as it is now. It is part of my childhood;
and, mother dear,” she continued sadly, “there is so little of our
childhood left to Henri and me. One of the earliest things I can
remember is your showing that dress to me and telling me how my father
brought it home to you the first time he went to Paris after his
marriage, and how you wore it when you stood at the window of our old
château in the Bocage, and watched him as he rode out with his men to
join the Royalists.”
“The last time I ever saw him--until I stood beside his death-bed. Ah,
my child! that war in La Vendée has broken many a woman’s heart.”
“Still, mother, it was a _just_ war. My father did well to die for his
King.”
“That is understood. My children and I have a consolation denied to
those whose dear ones perish every day in the frightful wars of this
Corsican usurper.--But do not trouble thy heart about the old gown,
Clémence. Silk and brocade and such things fade and perish and are
lost; but thy father’s last look as he rode away--_that_ remains,
_that_ is mine for ever. Does not the Bible say that ‘the things which
are seen are temporal, but the things which are not seen are eternal’?”
“Yes; but--is _that_ what it means, mother?”
“That may not be all it means, but it may mean that too.”
Clémence yielded. She was accustomed to give way to her mother; and
indeed it is not usually the strong in heart who dispute pertinaciously
about trifles,--like good soldiers, they reserve their fire until the
right moment. A consultation followed; and certain mysteries of cutting
and placing, of letting out and taking in, were decided upon and
arranged. While they were discussing the pattern of the sleeves, Madame
de Talmont paused to ask, in a kind of parenthesis, “What has become of
Henri? I have not seen him this morning.”
“He has gone for a walk.”
No more was said until the ladies had entered upon the mechanical part
of their task, and deft, skilful fingers were busy with needles and
thread. Then Madame de Talmont resumed, “Is it a fancy of mine, or is
it true, that Henri becomes every day more like our cousin Louis?”
“That, of course, I cannot tell,” Clémence replied, smiling, “since, as
you are aware, mother, I have never seen Cousin Louis; though I find it
hard to believe that. From my earliest childhood I have thought of him
and pictured him, until he has become a kind of friend to me--like the
saints, or the holy recluses of Port-Royal.”
“He was no saint, my daughter,” returned Madame de Talmont rather
bitterly. “And an evil friend he proved himself to thy dear father.”
“Yet, mother, he must have been one of the most lovable of men.”
“He was fascinating, I do not deny. Besides, he was the head of our
house--or, at least, he became so on the death of his father. And thy
father could never forget that his own orphaned childhood and youth
had been protected by the parents of Louis, and surrounded with an
atmosphere of love and tenderness. Often has he talked to me of his
happy boyhood at Vernier, where he and his cousin Louis were like
brothers, and Victoire was the cherished sister of both.”
“Cousin Victoire! Ah, mother, I wish you would tell me more about
her. I have always felt such a romantic interest in this beloved and
beautiful sister of Cousin Louis, and yet, somehow, I know very little
about her.”
“There is little to know, child,” said the mother, with perhaps a shade
of embarrassment.
“One thing perplexes me,” Clémence resumed thoughtfully. “I remember to
have heard you say that for generations the first daughter of our house
has been always called Victoire. Now, _I_ am not Victoire. Nor do I
bear your name, mother, nor that of my father’s mother, Léonie.”
“Child, ere thou wert born, the name Victoire had become a sound of
woe to thy father’s ear. Once, perhaps, it may have been too sweet;--I
cannot tell. Brought up together as they were, and with the grateful,
reverential love he bore to all the De Talmonts of Vernier, it would
have been but natural if--Still, when all things changed--”
“Mother, how was it that they changed so sadly? What could Cousin
Victoire have done to grieve my father? As for Cousin Louis, I know
that he became a Jacobin, a _bonnet rouge_.”
“Too true. Louis de Talmont--the child of a family of unstained honour
and unshaken loyalty, the nephew of the gallant prince who died so
nobly on the scaffold for his King[22]--betrayed every sacred memory
of the past, every holy hope for the future. I marvel that the dust of
his ancestors did not rise from the battle-fields of their country to
curse the wretch who bore part in the murder of his King.” A red glow
suffused the pale cheek of Madame de Talmont as she spoke, showing
how hotly the fire of passion burned beneath its covering of proud
and dignified self-control. With this lady of the old _régime_ the
affections of the heart were strong, but the traditions and prejudices
of a class were stronger yet.
“But Victoire?” Clémence ventured after a pause.
“Ah, Victoire! Poor child! she was more sinned against than sinning.
But her life was wrecked; and that sin lies at the door of Louis de
Talmont. In those early days of the Revolution many foreigners came to
Paris. With one of these, who was young, brilliant, wealthy, and noble,
Louis formed, after his fashion, a violent friendship. M. le Prince,
as we used to call him, had a fine figure, a handsome face, and the
most splendid diamonds I have ever seen. But _there_ was an end of his
perfections; and great as they may have been, they could scarcely atone
for a head and heart as empty as air. Being a stranger, with nothing
to lose, and no knowledge of our past to restrain him, he went farther
than even his misguided teachers. There was no excess of the mob,
in those evil days, in which he did not bear a part. In the Jacobin
halls his voice was the loudest, his counsel the most violent; and
ever on his lips was that misused, delusive cry, ‘Liberty, Equality,
Fraternity.’ It was to this man that Louis de Talmont must needs give
the hand of his sister, the cherished daughter of his house.”
“Poor Victoire! How terrible for her! How miserable she must have
been! And this foreign prince--did he perish on the scaffold, like our
Cousin Louis?”
“No; he escaped that fate. When the storm he and his friends had evoked
passed beyond their control, and the Revolution began to devour its own
children, he found safety in flight.”
“And Victoire?”
“His wife went with him. I believe he took her to his own country. It
is but justice to say that he seemed to love her well. But her place
here knew her no more; she has been dead ever since to all who held
her dear. Her name has passed into eternal silence. And when God gave
you to us, your father said to me, ‘M’amie, for many years now the
world has been talking of nothing but peace and love and the universal
brotherhood of man; but because in the brotherhood of man men have
forgotten the Fatherhood of God, their peace is ending in war, and
their love in hatred such as earth has seldom seen. By the time this
babe is a woman grown, perhaps once again the world will have tired
of war and _victory_’ (only in this way did he utter the name), ‘and
may be glad to be reminded of the existence of such things as clemency
and forgiveness; so I propose that we call the daughter of our house
Clémence.’ Accordingly, Clémence you are.”
“It is quite right, mother. I like my name. Clemency should always
follow victory.--Ah! there is Henri. His step is tired and slow.”
Henri came in, and in the old ceremonious way kissed his mother’s
hand and asked after her health. But the look that passed between
them showed that although Madame de Talmont loved both her children
intensely, her son was the very joy of her existence; while on his
part, the love of his mother was the strongest passion that had yet
found entrance into his young heart. His face was pale and anxious;
indeed it wore almost an expression of terror.
“What is the matter?” his mother asked presently.
“Nothing particular,--nothing much,” said Henri.
“Whatever it is, speak, my son,--and at once,” said Madame de Talmont
imperatively.
“There is a placard on the Mairie announcing that the drawing for the
conscription is to take place next Thursday. It is as the curé told us:
all are liable who will be eighteen in the course of the year.”
Both his hearers grew pale, and the work fell from their hands. After a
short pause his mother said, “It is plain you will have to attend. God
grant you may draw a good number. But, at all events--” She remained
silent for some moments, then she added, in a voice which struggled
hard to be calm, “Bring me my desk, Clémence; we must be prepared for
the worst.”
Clémence obeyed mechanically, while Henri stood silent and listless,
watching her movements.
“Henri,” resumed Madame de Talmont, “I am going to write to our good
friend Grandpierre. _Should_ the worst happen, you must escape, and go
to him through the forest. He will shelter you.”
“But, mother, mother”--the lad’s colour came and went, and a quiver ran
through his frame--“the risk is terrible.”
“To _him_? He will venture it, for the House of Talmont, for his King,
and for his God.”
“To us all. Do you know how they deal with the _refractory_, as they
call those who try to evade the conscription, and with their families?”
Madame de Talmont raised her thin hand with a peremptory gesture, “Not
another word, Henri. It concerns not thee or us to measure the danger;
the duty is all with which we have to do. I can bear to think of thee
pining on bread and water, with a bullet chained to thy foot, and thy
head shaved like a convict’s; I could _not_ bear to know thee in the
camp of the Corsican tyrant, fighting to fasten his iron yoke upon the
necks of free men. How could I look upon thy father’s face in heaven,
if I had reared and nourished his son for _this_?”
“But oh, mother, it is _you_ I think of--you and Clémence.”
“Whatever cross God lays upon us he will give us strength to sustain.
Go, my children, and pray to him. I must be alone while I write this
letter, for it will need to be very cautiously but very distinctly
worded. The posts are not safe.”