THE PURPLE BROCADE ONCE MORE.
“He says, ‘God bless him!’ almost with a sob,
As the great hero passes; he is glad
The world holds mighty men and mighty deeds.”
GEORGE ELIOT.
Three or four days later, a solemn council met in the parlour of Madame
de Salgues to consider the proposal for the hand of Clémence formally
made the previous evening by Ivan to Madame de Talmont. The council
consisted only of three persons--Madame de Salgues, Madame de Talmont,
and Henri--the two most immediately concerned being, as a matter of
course, excluded. The Czar was expected in Versailles that day; and
Ivan, knowing that his only chance of a word from him was to be found
in placing himself once more amongst his wounded comrades, had gone to
the hospital. Clémence was in her own chamber, on her knees, her hot
face pressed down upon the coverlet of her bed. Yet she was scarcely
praying. The hopes, the fears, the wishes that stirred timidly in the
depths of her heart were too vague to clothe themselves in words. Not
even into the ear of her mother could she have found voice to breathe
them; especially since the rigid conventionalities amidst which she had
been brought up forbade her to acknowledge that she had hopes or fears
or wishes at all. But kneeling there, she felt herself in the presence
of One who knew all, who understood each subtle turn and winding of the
heart that did not half understand itself; and without too curiously
examining her burden, she tried to lay it, just as it was, at his feet.
“Our Father who art in heaven,” she pleaded, “do what is right and best
for me, and for--for _us all_. And thy will be done.”
Meanwhile the voices in the room beneath her scarcely paused for an
instant. They were calm, well-bred voices, which never interrupted
each other, never grew too loud or hasty. But they were the voices
of speakers very much in earnest, and with very definite views and
opinions. It was with Madame de Talmont that the decision really
rested; but she felt it right and fitting to consult the two others,
though perhaps she only did it, as persons of a quiet but determined
character are apt to do, with her own mind fully made up. “You are
aware, my dear aunt,” she said, “that the unhappy marriage of our poor
Cousin Victoire has created in my mind a strong prejudice against
Russians. But this feeling, though it may have its weight with me,
ought not to be decisive.”
Henri moved uneasily, and seemed about to speak, but restrained
himself, and Madame de Salgues inquired, “Does this young man resemble
his father?”
“In his figure, yes; and somewhat in his features also; but he is
far more like his mother. Victoire was charming; and I am bound to
acknowledge that everything I have observed in her son since he came
here creates the most favourable impression.”
“He certainly seems to be a perfect gentleman,” Madame de Salgues
admitted. “Un parfait honnête homme,” was what she said.
“He is courteous, unselfish, generous,” Madame de Talmont added. “His
principles appear to be excellent; and although, of course, I greatly
deplore the difference of religion, and should much prefer a Catholic,
still I believe him to be really pious in his own way, and very
scrupulous in observing the rites of his Church. Besides, as Clémence
is herself so _dévote_, I have little doubt she will gain him in the
end.”
“All you say is most true,” Henri assented warmly. “Dear mother,
if it be your wish to give the hand of my sister to an honourable,
noble-hearted, God-fearing man, I think you may search the world
without finding a better than Ivan Ivanovitch Pojarsky.”
“The young man may deserve all you say of him,” Madame de Salgues
interposed rather sharply; “but in the meantime I wish to know what are
his prospects. What does he intend to live upon?”
“He is an officer--an ensign in the Chevalier Guard,” remarked Madame
de Talmont.
“We all know that, my dear Rose,” returned the elder lady, with just a
shade of contempt in her quiet, well-bred accents; “but we know equally
well that his pay will scarcely keep him in white kid gloves, tobacco,
and pocket-money.”
“He does not use tobacco,” Henri threw in by way of parenthesis.
“A place in such a corps may be a social distinction,” Madame de
Salgues continued, “but it is in no sense a provision. It gives
prestige, but it absorbs money.”
“I believe he has good expectations,” Madame de Talmont hazarded.
“Good expectations!” the old lady scornfully repeated. “It would be
more to the purpose if he had a good estate. But it appears his father
was despoiled of everything, even to his clothes and his jewellery.
While as for the young man himself, he has had half-a-dozen civil words
from the Emperor of Russia. That is absolutely all. I fail to see how
he can set up an establishment and do justice to a family upon _that_.”
“The Emperor, who is in full possession of all his history, would
not have placed him in the Chevalier Guard if he had not intended to
provide for him,” Henri said. “Do you know, my dear mother,” he asked
rather abruptly, “that M. Pojarsky was in Moscow during the whole time
of the Occupation?”
“I know he met you there; but how he came to be there himself I do not
know.”
“Just like him not to speak of it. I can tell you, however, it was
a piece of splendid gallantry from first to last. I heard it talked
of even at Vilna. M. Pojarsky, young as he then was, stayed in the
doomed city, at the peril of his life, to aid in that terrible work of
destruction, which will never be forgotten while the world lasts. He
helped to give Murat the warm reception he got there; and he discovered
some hundreds of Russian wounded who lay concealed in the cellars, and
must have died of starvation but for the food with which he supplied
them. I am sure my honoured aunt and my dear mother will both agree
with me that these services have established a claim upon his sovereign
which no monarch would be likely to disregard, least of all the Emperor
Alexander.”
The force of this statement was admitted by Madame de Salgues with
half-reluctant candour, and by Madame de Talmont with genuine
satisfaction. Here the discussion ended, though the conversation lasted
some time longer. Finally it was arranged that Ivan’s suit was to be
favourably received, upon an understanding that the marriage must on
no account take place until he had the prospect of an assured and
permanent competency.
No one had even alluded to what we should have thought the most
important element in the problem--the inclination of Clémence herself.
But what is unnamed is not necessarily unconsidered. The heart of the
mother beat in unison with the heart of the child, although no words
had passed between them. There were tears in the eyes of Madame de
Talmont, but a thankful look in her quiet face, when at last she rose
and said, “Now I think I may go and speak with Clémence.”
“Do so, dear mother,” said Henri, rising to open the door for her.
“But, I pray thee, do not detain her long. For I have set my heart
upon inducing her to walk with me as far as the gate of the hospital,
to see the Czar.”
“And what need of that, pray?” asked Madame de Salgues. “I understand
the Emperor of Russia is to pass through this street on his way to the
Castle. We shall all see him from these windows. What more can any one
desire?”
“Any one who had a sister as pretty as mine might very well desire
to take a walk with her in the town, when all the world is making
holiday,” returned Henri, laughing.
“Well, that is not so unreasonable. Young people of course like a
little pleasure; and the very best people--gens comme il faut--will
all be on foot in the streets to-day. But I trust, M. Henri,” the old
lady added more gravely as the two were left alone together, “that
you may never regret having thrown your influence into the scale of
this Russian. Even supposing the young man to be the most desirable
_parti_ in the world, think of the banishment from civilized society,
and the frightful climate of St. Petersburg! Clémence might have done
better--much better. Not to speak of M. de Cranfort, a very excellent
person, _bien rangé_, and with a sufficient property, who is a constant
visitor here, and I believe not indifferent to your sister, there are
others by no means to be despised.”
“I suspect M. Ivan has heard something of a certain M. de Sartines
which has disquieted him.”
“What can he have heard of _him_?”
“I do not know exactly; but the idea seems to have been given that he
aspires to the hand of Clémence.”
“Oh, as for _that_, it must be a mistake! M. de Sartines has but just
returned to Paris after an exile of several years. If in former days
he had any _penchant_, I believe it was--do not laugh, Henri--for the
mother, not the daughter. My own ideas for Clémence--not that there is
any use in expressing them now--pointed, I must confess, in a different
direction. I am not rich, but these are evil days, and it is something
to have saved from the wreck of a fine fortune even so much as I
have contrived to do--for Emile.” A faint, delicate flush overspread
the furrowed cheeks of the old lady as she uttered the name she loved
best in the world, and added, with a little tender hesitation that was
almost touching, “I am very fond of your sister, M. Henri.”
“I know it, ma tante,” said Henri, kissing her hand. “I can never be
half grateful enough for all your goodness to her, and to my dear
mother. But I am sure Clémence will be happy, and that you are kind and
generous enough to rejoice in her happiness.”
He went to the door of his sister’s room, and knocked. After a slight
pause, his knock was answered by a gentle “Come in” from Madame de
Talmont. Mother and daughter stood together at the window, and traces
of tears were on both their faces. Henri made his request that Clémence
would accompany him into the town; and Madame de Talmont, who did not
like to deny him anything, decided that she had better go. Clémence
would far rather have stayed at home; but she yielded, as usual, to the
wishes of her mother.
“Have you no dress but that one?” asked Henri with a little hesitation,
as he pointed to the plain black serge worn as mourning for him, and
which, in the three bright, bewildering days that had passed since his
return, she had been too much occupied to think of discarding. “M. Ivan
tells me that the Czar noticed with sadness ‘the number of women and
children in mourning’ that he saw on the day of his triumphal entry
into Paris. Do not let him see one in mourning to-day who has no cause
to mourn.”
“I have _one_ coloured dress,” said Clémence; and going to a closet
near at hand, she took out the purple brocade which her mother had
given her before Henri’s departure, and which she had never worn.
“It will do very well,” said Madame de Talmont. “Already the story
of _my_ life is wrought into the pattern of those flowers.--And now
_thine_.”
Henri and Clémence were soon threading their way through the crowded
street, where the inhabitants of Versailles were making holiday. The
brother and sister seemed to have changed positions, if not characters.
Henri had passed through such terrible suffering of body and mind, that
although the one might recover its strength and the other its tone,
still there was something gone from him which could never return: he
had left his youth behind him in the snows of Russia. On the other
hand, a fresh spring-time of life and hope had come to Clémence; the
garden of her sad and careful girlhood was beginning to rejoice and
blossom as the rose. As in former days the grave and motherly elder
sister had watched over and counselled the careless, happy-hearted boy;
so now it became the office of the manly brother to protect and shield,
perhaps to advise, the young and timid maiden trembling on the brink of
the deeper joys of womanhood. Yet, though they had much to talk of, at
first few words passed between them.
“We are late,” Henri observed to Clémence, as he hurried her
along.--“Here they come!”
The Czar had already left the hospital, and the stately cavalcade was
advancing slowly down the street on its way to the Avenue de Paris.
“Let us come to these steps,” said Henri, leading his sister quickly
through the throng. “We shall see well here.”
But the senses of Clémence were confused by the glittering train as it
passed along. “Where is the Czar?” she asked in haste, making her voice
heard with difficulty through the shouts and cheering that filled the
air.
“_There_--in green and gold--on the white horse.”
“Yes; I see him!” she cried, her eye following the direction of Henri’s
finger.
On either side of the Czar rode a handsome fair-haired boy, and the
bright young faces attracted for an instant the eye of Clémence. “His
sons?” she queried.
“Would they were,” answered Henri. “No, he is childless. They are his
young brothers, the Grand Dukes Nicholas and Michael.”
But Clémence scarcely listened, so eager was she to see what Ivan’s
Czar was like.
The face was noble, but care-worn and weary, as of a man who had heavy
burdens to bear. Just then, however, he turned towards one of the lads,
bending his head to catch some laughing remark of his, and a smile
flashed like sunlight over his features, revealing a rare and spiritual
beauty unseen by her before. She was satisfied.
Henri, meanwhile, was beside himself with excitement. He took off his
cap, waved it in the air, then taking advantage of a momentary pause in
the incessant and deafening cries of “Vive Alexandre! Vive l’Empereur
de Russie!” that filled the street, he shouted aloud, in his clear,
high-pitched voice, “_Vive l’aide-de-camp de St. Priest!_”
Clémence gazed at her brother in amazement “What do you mean? Who is
the aide-de-camp de St. Priest?” she whispered.
“He has heard! He understands! He is bowing to us!” cried Henri,
without heeding her. “God bless him! God grant me one day to tell him
what he has done for me. Or, perhaps, _you_ will tell him for me,
Clémence?”
“Dear brother, let us come home. This crowd is too much for you,” said
Clémence in an anxious tone, as she saw his rapidly changing colour and
the tears that gathered in his eyes.
“No; it is all right. Thank God I have seen him once again. When they
have passed on I will take you home by some quiet way, and tell you why
I am so deeply moved.”
As he spoke they saw Ivan on horseback, amidst the group that followed
the Czar. He saluted them; and as he did so his face lighted up until
it grew absolutely radiant with satisfaction. “I told him,” whispered
Henri, “that if he saw you here wearing a coloured dress he might
rejoice.”
“O Henri!” cried the horror-stricken Clémence, her face overspread with
blushes. “How wicked of you! What will he think?”
“Nothing about _you_, sister mine. He knows you were not in the plot;
so be at rest. Now, let us come away; our work is done.”
They found a quiet way through streets which were little frequented
at any time, and that day were absolutely empty. Hitherto Henri had
been very silent about the story of his life since they parted; about
all at least except the last year, which he had spent very comfortably
at Vilna, recruiting his health, and enjoying the society of numerous
friends amongst the Polish nobility and gentry, who soon discovered in
the young conscript the scion of an old and good family. The allowance
generously given by the Czar to all the French prisoners sufficed for
his moderate wants;[55] and he had wisely devoted his leisure to study.
Thus much he had told to his mother and sister; but the horrors of the
Moscow campaign had been studiously avoided. Now, however, as they
walked slowly along, Henri told his sister as much as he could tell any
one of the “weltering abysses of trouble” through which he had passed.
He told of the weary hungerings in the snow; of the Berezina agony;
of the dazed, half-delirious wanderings over the frozen Polish plain;
of the bitter, blank despair that settled down upon him at last. He
told of the ghastly Vilna hospital, the lowest depth of all; and of
the love, divine and human, which met him there and rescued him from
the pit of horror. “My feet were set in a large place,” he said; “and
I thanked God and believed in him as I had never done before.” He
added, after a pause, “And Ivan is the reflection of his Czar. Even
unconsciously and in the veriest trifles he copies him. Now, Clémence
you know another reason why I am not unwilling to trust the dearest of
sisters to his keeping.”
When the blush that passed over the face of Clémence had subsided a
little, she said softly, “No doubt you pray every day for the Czar. So
shall I.”
“I do; but it is hard to know what to ask for him. Already God
has given him everything we are wont to ask for rulers of the
earth--dominion, power, glory, wealth, victory over his foes.”
“Let us ask God to give him his very best gifts, Henri.”
“Ay, if only we knew what they are.”
“We do know, brother,--love, joy, peace, long-suffering, gentleness,
goodness, faith, meekness, temperance.”
Henri started, as though the thought were new to him. “Those would be
strange jewels for the diadem on a monarch’s brow,” he said. “Yet,
after all, the world--here in Paris as well as where I have been in
Poland--can bear witness to ‘long-suffering, gentleness, goodness.’ Of
‘love, joy, peace,’ of course I cannot speak, for they are gems whose
light is turned God-wards.”
“Then let our prayer be for those. The face we have seen to-day does
not look joyful, Henri.”
When they returned to the house they found guests awaiting them,
friends of Madame de Salgues, who wished to congratulate her niece
upon the return of Henri, and to make his acquaintance. The afternoon
was spent in entertaining them, and was already far gone when Ivan
joined the party. Madame de Talmont contrived to say a word to him in
private, which sent him with a beaming face to answer M. de Cranfort’s
multitudinous questions about the Dresden campaign.
By-and-by, when the soft May twilight had fallen, he stole to the
window where Clémence was standing looking out on the little garden.
She had wearied of the discussion absorbing all the others, about the
time and manner of the new king’s triumphal entry into his capital.
Ivan in his heart thanked the quick, eager voices which were making
just then a welcome “solitude for two.”
“Mademoiselle Clémence,” he began.
A thrill of terror swept over the girl’s heart, like the instinctive
shrinking of the sensitive plant which closes up its petals at the
lightest touch. She took refuge, not in silence, but in speech.
“Monsieur Ivan,” she said quickly, “I have seen your Czar.”
“Have you?”
“Yes; and heard Henri talk of him. There is a verse in the Gospel of
which he has taught me the meaning--‘He that is greatest among you
shall be your servant.’”
“How true! You always seem to go to the heart of everything.” There
was a pause sufficient for Ivan’s quick ear to note that the pompous
tones of M. de Cranfort were quite filling the room. “Dear Mademoiselle
Clémence,” he resumed, “one little word from you can make me richer
than the Czar himself to-night.”
Clémence murmured something inaudible, and seemed to need the hand he
tried to take to shade her face, though the room was in darkness now.
Then Ivan’s passionate heart flashed out and found its utterance. Since
the beginning of the world had no one ever loved as he loved Clémence.
It is the old fond illusion: to each young and ardent soul its own
experience is a new discovery, undreamt of heretofore by the slow heart
of humanity. Each generation sings--
“We were the first that ever burst
Into that silent sea.”
But the moment’s rapture was all too brief. The vigilant eye of Madame
de Talmont discerned a state of things which, if suffered to continue,
might possibly imperil “les convenances.” She rose softly from her
place and drew near, near enough to catch the low-breathed words, “My
Clémence.” After one sigh--into which all the memories of her own youth
were gathered up--she laid her hand gently on the arm of Clémence. “My
dear child,” she said, “dost thou know that the little Fanchon is very
ill? La Tante will never be content if she is not well cared for. Go
and see.”
Fanchon was only a favourite lap-dog, but Clémence lavished a good deal
of tenderness that night on the little creature.
Three very happy weeks followed; then Ivan’s marching orders came, and
he set his face towards his own country, not without sorrow, but with
the hope of a glad return at no distant day to claim the treasure left
behind him.