AT VERSAILLES.
“A poor man helped by thee shall make thee rich;
A sick man served by thee shall make thee whole:
Thou shalt be blessed thyself in every sense
Of blessing which thou renderest.”
The two years so eventful to others had not passed without change over
the mother and sister Henri de Talmont left sorrowing behind him in the
cottage at Brie. That he had joined the corps of recruits instead of
making his escape soon became known to them. Both were stricken to the
heart; and because this was so, the grief of both was still and silent.
Clémence told her mother Henri’s parting words, upon which a mournful
light was thrown by what followed. But these brought little comfort,
and no tidings since had reached them from the wanderer. As may have
been inferred, the letter intrusted to Seppel was never posted; and
Henri did not write again.
At length came news of the appalling disasters in Russia. Neither
Madame de Talmont nor Clémence indulged the faintest hope that Henri
could have survived them. They mourned for the one who “was not,” in an
utter desolation, beyond words and beyond tears.
Sometimes they murmured sadly to each other, “If only we knew the
truth.” For it was one of the bitterest drops in their full cup of
bitterness that they could not tell in what form death had come to
their beloved, while they knew but too well how hideous and revolting
were some of the forms assumed by the king of terrors. Horrible details
reached them, piercing the thick veil of falsehood with which Napoleon
sought to hide the disasters of his army; and imagination--that
magician so powerful for good and evil--exercised a fearful ingenuity
in torturing their aching hearts to the uttermost.
These were pangs they endured in common; but each had besides her
solitary burden of pain. That of the mother was tinged with something
like the bitterness of remorse. She had been wroth with her boy for
deceiving her and betraying the cause she held dearer than life. Pride
and anger had kept her back from obeying the first impulse of her heart
when she heard of him as amongst the conscripts who left the village.
She thought of hastening after him to Paris, that he might not go forth
to die without his mother’s pardon and her blessing. But she put the
thought aside. The difficulties in her way would have been very great,
yet it was not these that deterred her. It was the persuasion that
he did not deserve this sacrifice at her hands--that the first step
towards a reconciliation ought to come from him. If he wished for it,
why had he not written?--But now everything was changed. With vain
tears that had no healing in them the broken-hearted mother mourned
over “the irrevocable past.”
Clémence too had her lonely sorrow. Deeply thoughtful and truly pious,
after the strong, stern, self-sacrificing Jansenist fashion, she knew
too well that her brother’s young heart had never truly surrendered
itself to its Creator and Redeemer. The “Except ye be converted” of the
Divine Teacher held as real a place in the creed of Clémence as in that
of any Protestant; nor, under the circumstances, could the Catholic
belief in sacramentary grace interpose its soft, misleading glamour
between her eyes and the truth. So her soul went down to the depths
of a sorrow without hope; depths that few are strong enough to sound,
and those who do sound them seldom tell what they find there. Some,
it may be, bring back from thence secrets of divine love, “treasures
of the deep that lieth under,” worth all they have passed through to
learn them. But it was not so with Clémence. She brought no pearls with
her from the deeps of ocean. It was much if she herself came back, or
rather _drifted_ back, forlorn and weary, because mind and body were no
longer strong enough to bear the strain of intense emotion. She said in
her heart,--as poor Henri thought she would do all too easily,--“It is
the will of God;” but she never truly said, “Thy will be done.” Perhaps
she made her heavy burden heavier by asking from herself what God never
asked from her; forgetting that it is _not_ his will that any sinner
should perish, and that Christ himself wept tears of divine compassion
over lost souls. So her own faith grew dim and clouded, until even the
sense of personal love to God seemed to vanish away, and with it the
trust in his love to her; for, unhappily, her creed did _not_ teach her
that his love to his chosen and adopted is “everlasting.”
In the course of time an outward change was mercifully sent to break up
the current of those two sorrowful lives. A widowed sister of Madame
de Talmont’s mother had been able to retain a portion of her property
through all the storms of the Revolution. Madame de Salgues had lost
both her sons, and only one grandson remained to her, the object of
her passionate devotion. But the agents of Napoleon kept watch over
the lad, as a scion of the old noblesse; and when he had attained a
suitable age, Madame de Salgues was requested to send him to the Ecole
Polytechnique, such a request being too evidently a command. She wept,
but had to obey; removing, however, to Paris, in order to be near him.
But the superintendent of police, the notorious Savary, had a word to
say upon that subject; and the poor old lady was soon forbidden to
reside within the city. Remonstrance was useless; so she retired to
Versailles, where she was still near enough to receive frequent visits
from her grandson. Finding herself alone and lonely, with failing
health and depressed spirits, she thought of Madame de Talmont; and
very wisely wrote offering a comfortable home to her and her daughter,
if they would come and cheer her declining years.
The invitation was accepted with thankfulness; and the first faint
gleams of comfort stole unconsciously into the darkened hearts of
Madame de Talmont and Clémence as they sought to soothe the sorrows of
another. Poor Madame de Salgues had soon a fresh grief to mourn over.
Like all her family, she was a stanch Legitimist, and she had brought
up her grandson in the same political creed; but he could not long
withstand the influence of his new surroundings. Before he had been
three months at the Ecole Polytechnique, his teachers and fellow-pupils
had wrought a rapid conversion, and made him as fiery and unreasoning
a partisan of Napoleon as he had once been of the Bourbons. Emile de
Salgues was not a lad whose opinions upon any subject were likely to
be of particular importance to the rest of the world, but to Madame de
Salgues the apostasy of her grandson from the good cause was a very
grievous affliction.
The invasion of France by the Allies, and the attack upon Paris, caused
many apprehensions to the household of unprotected ladies; but, as they
themselves would have expressed it, they were “quitte pour la peur,” no
adversary nor evil of any kind came near them. They all rejoiced at the
overthrow of Napoleon, but with trembling, and that for more reasons
than one,--they could not yet believe it was real, and they had not the
slightest idea of what was to take his place.
On the day following the entry of the conquerors into Paris, Madame de
Talmont said to her daughter, “Clémence, the Allies have sent their
wounded here.”
Clémence looked up from the embroidery upon which she was engaged. Two
years of sorrow had changed the young girl into a grave and quiet
woman; but there was even a rarer beauty than of old in her pale and
sculptured face. “There must be many wounded,” she remarked with an air
of sadness. “Every one says the fight was an obstinate one.”
“The hospital is full to overflowing. Clémence, they are all of them
mothers’ sons, _also_.”
In the last word there was an undertone of pain that went straight to
the heart of Clémence. “True, dear mother,” she said softly.
“I have been thinking,” Madame de Talmont resumed, “that it would do us
good to try and comfort some of them, even a little. What should _we_
feel now, if we knew that any one had done it for our beloved?”
With Clémence a call to action always found a ready response. “What can
we do, mother?” she asked with even a touch of eagerness.
“To some of the sick men fruit may be welcome; to others, a little
money to buy the trifling luxuries they may long for; to all, kind
words will not be valueless.”
“But, mother, they are Germans and Russians. They will not understand
us.”
“Some of them will. At all events, we can try.”
An hour afterwards, two ladies dressed in deep mourning and closely
veiled entered the Hospital of Versailles. Each carried a basket filled
with grapes and oranges, which they easily obtained permission to
distribute amongst the patients.
“These are all Russians who are here,” they were told; “the Prussians
and Austrians have been provided for in other places.”
The sufferers were well cared for, as well at least as circumstances
permitted. A liberal allowance was made for their support by their own
government; and the Mayor of Versailles interested himself so warmly in
their welfare, that the Czar afterwards wrote him an autograph letter
of thanks.
Madame de Talmont and Clémence passed between long rows of pallets,
distributing their little gifts, which were most thankfully received,
especially the oranges, of which the Russians were excessively fond.
They tried to show their gratitude by looks and signs; and one poor
fellow, remembering a word which is the same in most languages and
full of blessing in all, brought tears to the sad eyes of Clémence by
looking up and murmuring, “Christohs;” as though he would have said,
“We are one in Him.”
They came at last to the ward where the wounded officers lay. Their
little store was long since exhausted; and even had it been otherwise,
they would have thought the common soldiers greater objects of
compassion. So they passed on rather quickly, and without paying much
heed to the pale but interested faces which were raised from many a
pillow to gaze at the gentle, sweet-looking ladies, the very sight of
whom seemed to do the poor sufferers good.
At length one face arrested the eye of Madame de Talmont, and she could
not but pause for another look. It was a young and handsome face,
with a burning spot on either cheek, and a contraction of the brows
that told the story of feverish pain. Yet, in spite of weariness and
suffering, the eyes were absolutely beaming with joy, and a happy,
satisfied smile played over the parted lips.
She stood for a moment by the side of the invalid. “My young friend,”
she said kindly, “you seem to be in pain; and yet you look happy.”
“Yes, madame, I am indeed happy,” answered Ivan Pojarsky, who had just
been receiving a visit from his friend Tolstoi. “How can I help it?
Yesterday the Czar entered Paris in triumph.”
He spoke French as correctly and with almost as pure an accent as
Madame de Talmont herself. She was touched and interested by his words.
“But,” she asked, “do you not feel it hard to be lying here, helpless
and suffering, while your Emperor and your companions in arms enjoy
their triumph?”
“Oh no, madame,” he said with animation; “I cannot think of that. Nor
could you, if you belonged to my Czar. If you had seen the flames
of Moscow; had heard the thunder when the mines exploded that laid
half our Kremlin in ruins; had witnessed the faith and courage that
upheld him _then_, had watched the long and weary conflict he has
waged from that hour until now--patient, wise, self-sacrificing,
undaunted[50],--you would rejoice for him in the very depths of your
heart that the goal is won at last, that he stands a conqueror in
the midst of Paris, and possesses the gate of his enemies!” In his
eagerness he half raised himself, his eyes sparkled, and his whole face
flushed with excitement.
“Gently, gently, my poor young friend,” said Madame de Talmont in a
tone of almost motherly tenderness. “I fear you will hurt yourself.”
“Oh no, madame;”--but even as he spoke his colour changed rapidly, and
his lip quivered with the pain he tried to hide.
Meanwhile, many thoughts were passing through the mind of the silent
but observant Clémence. There was a little stand beside the bed, upon
which were a phial containing medicine, a small book, and a clean white
cambric handkerchief. She saw, with interest and pleasure, that the
book was a copy of the New Testament in French. Then her eye rested
upon the folded cambric, and presently a cry of amazement broke from
her lips.
Every one started and looked towards her. Madame de Talmont was
terror-stricken. So quiet and self-contained had Clémence ever been,
that even in childhood a cry from her lips was a thing almost unknown.
And now, with a face as white as that of any of the stricken sufferers
around them, she was placing the handkerchief in the hand of her
mother. “Look,” she faltered--“look, mother!”
Ivan called an attendant, fortunately within reach. “Will you kindly
place seats for these ladies?” he said, for he saw that the agitation
of the mother was as great as that of the daughter. Both were gazing
spell-bound at the crest, worked curiously and skilfully on a corner
of the handkerchief, and having beneath it the initials “H. de T.”
No wonder; for it was the fingers of Clémence that had wrought every
stitch, and her mother’s eyes had watched the work. In both hearts
a horrible dread succeeded to the first rush of uncontrollable and
unreasoning emotion. Was this amongst the spoils of the dead?
Ivan watched them with pitying eyes. “Have the goodness to be seated,
madame and mademoiselle,” he said. “A little nearer, please; I cannot
speak very loud. But I think I have something to tell you.”
They obeyed mechanically; and Madame de Talmont said falteringly,
pointing to the initials on the handkerchief, “He was my son.”
“_Is_,” Ivan corrected.
From that moment to her dying day Madame de Talmont loved the voice
that uttered that blessed monosyllable.
“I have good hope, madame, that God has preserved him to you through
many dangers,” Ivan went on. “I saw him twice--the last time at Vilna,
after the perils and horrors of the retreat were over. He was lying
sick in a hospital there. Not with any malady, only worn out with
hunger, cold, and weariness. Every care was afforded him, and every
kindness shown that circumstances permitted; and so, I trust--”
“But,” Clémence interrupted, “can we be sure there is no mistake?
M. le Russe, how did you become possessed of this?” pointing to the
handkerchief.
“In a strange way, mademoiselle,” said Ivan, fixing his deep blue eyes
on her face. “A young peasant, a friend of my childhood, was made
prisoner by the French as they were marching upon Moscow. They branded
him in the hand with the letter N, telling him that now he belonged to
their Emperor, Napoleon. The brave fellow took out his axe and struck
off the hand, saying to them, ‘Take what belongs to your Emperor; as
for me, I belong wholly to the Czar.’ Then, mademoiselle, monsieur,
your--your brother, I presume, stepped forward before them all, like
the gallant and chivalrous gentleman he is, and bound up the poor lad’s
wounded arm with his own handkerchief.”
A look of pride and pleasure flashed over the pale face of
Clémence--and Ivan saw it.
He resumed, “It was in Moscow, during the Occupation, that I met him
first. My friend pointed him out to me in one of our churches. He found
his way there, for he said it did him good to see men kneel in prayer
to God, though he could not understand their words. Afterwards, as I
told you, I saw him in the hospital at Vilna.”
Absorbed though she was in the interest of his narrative, Clémence
perceived that Ivan was growing faint “Mother,” she whispered, “I fear
we are hurting him. Let us go.”
“Only one word more,” said Ivan. “You wish to know how _I_ came by
that,” again indicating the handkerchief. “My friend Michael treasured
it carefully as a souvenir, and when I was wounded the other night, he
used it to bind the wound. Knowing how he prizes it, I was careful to
have it washed, and kept it by me to give him when he comes to see me.
Now it is better in your hands.”
Here one of the surgeons, who for some time had been hovering uneasily
about the group, interposed and courteously requested the visitors to
withdraw. He said, as he attended them to the door, “Pardon me, ladies,
for interrupting your conversation, but I must take care of my patient,
who will be in a high fever to-night if he excites himself any further.
Indeed, I fear mischief has been done already--not by _you_, ladies,”
he added with a bow, “but by one of his comrades, who came to him this
morning full of yesterday’s triumphal entry into the city.”
“I hope,” Madame de Talmont contrived to say, in spite of her extreme
agitation,--“I hope he is not severely wounded?”
“Severely, but not dangerously,” was the answer. “He is one of
the finest young men we have, madame: an ensign in the Emperor’s
Chevalier Guard, and already very favourably noticed by his Imperial
Majesty.--Adieu, madame and mademoiselle: we shall be happy to see you
another day.”