WHAT PASSED THREE NIGHTS LATER AT EIGHT HUNDRED LEAGUES FROM THE PALAIS
ROYAL.
Three nights after that on which we have seen the regent, first at
Chelles and then at Meudon, a scene passed in the environs of Nantes
which cannot be omitted in this history; we will therefore exercise our
privilege of transporting the reader to that place.
On the road to Clisson, two or three miles from Nantes--near the convent
known as the residence of Abelard--was a large dark house, surrounded by
thick stunted trees; hedges everywhere surrounded the inclosure outside
the walls, hedges impervious to the sight, and only interrupted by a
wicket gate.
This gate led into a garden, at the end of which was a wall, having a
small, massive, and closed door. From a distance this grave and dismal
residence appeared like a prison; it was, however, a convent, full of
young Augustines, subject to a rule lenient as compared with provincial
customs, but rigid as compared with those of Paris.
The house was inaccessible on three sides, but the fourth, which did not
face the road, abutted on a large sheet of water; and ten feet above its
surface were the windows of the refectory.
This little lake was carefully guarded, and was surrounded by high
wooden palisades. A single iron gate opened into it, and at the same
time gave a passage to the waters of a small rivulet which fed the lake,
and the water had egress at the opposite end.
In the summer, a small boat belonging to the garden was seen on the
water, and was used for fishing.
Sometimes, also, in summer, on dark nights, the river-gate was
mysteriously opened, and a man, wrapped in a large brown cloak, silently
dropped into the little boat, which appeared to detach itself from its
fastenings, then glided quietly along, and stopped under one of the
barred windows of the refectory.
Soon a sound was heard, imitating the croaking of a frog or the cry of
the owl so common there, and then a young girl would appear at the
window, and pass her head through the opening between the bars, which
were, however, too high for the man to reach. A low and tender
conversation was then carried on, and at length, after a different hour
and a different signal had been agreed upon for their next interview,
they separated, the boat disappeared, the gate shut gently, and the
young girl closed the window with a sigh.
But now it was the month of February, and in the terrible winter of
1719. The trees were powdered with hoar frost, and it was at this time
impossible to glide quietly along in the little boat, for the lake was
covered with ice. And yet, in this biting cold, in this dark, starless
night, a cavalier ventured alone into the open country, and along a
cross-road which led to Clisson. He threw the reins on the neck of his
horse, which proceeded at a slow and careful pace.
Soon, however, in spite of his instinctive precaution, the poor animal,
which had no light to guide him, struck against a stone and nearly fell.
The rider soon perceived that his horse was lamed, and on seeing a trail
of blood upon the snow, discovered that it was wounded.
The young man appeared seriously annoyed at the accident, and while
deliberating what course to take, he heard a sound of horses' feet on
the same road; and, feeling sure that if they were pursuing him he could
not escape them, he remounted his horse, drew aside behind some fallen
trees, put his sword under his arm, drew out a pistol, and waited.
The cavalcade soon appeared; they were four in number, and rode silently
along, passing the group of trees which hid the cavalier, when suddenly
they stopped. One who appeared the chief alighted, took out a dark
lantern, and examined the road.
As they could not see far, they returned some steps, and, by the light
of their lantern, perceived the cavalier.
The sound of cocking pistols was now heard.
"Hola!" said the cavalier with the wounded horse, taking the
initiative; "who are you, and what do you want?"
"It is he," murmured two or three voices.
The man with the lantern advanced toward the cavalier.
"Advance one step further and you are a dead man," said the cavalier.
"Declare your name at once, that I may know with whom I have to deal."
"Shoot no one, Gaston de Chanlay," replied the man with the lantern,
calmly; "and put up your pistols."
"Ah! it is the Marquis de Pontcalec."
"Yes; it is I."
"And what do you come here for, may I ask?"
"To demand some explanation of your conduct. Approach and reply, if you
please."
"The invitation is singular, marquis. If you wish for an answer, could
you not ask it in other terms?"
"Approach, Gaston," said another voice; "we really wish to speak with
you."
"A la bonne heure," said Chanlay, "I recognize you there, Montlouis; but
I confess I am not accustomed to M. de Pontcalec's manner of
proceeding."
"My manners are those of a frank and open Breton, monsieur," replied the
marquis, "of one who has nothing to hide from his friends, and is
willing to be questioned as freely as he questions others."
"I join Montlouis," said another voice, "in begging Gaston to explain
amicably. Surely it is not our interest to quarrel among ourselves."
"Thanks, Du Couedic," said De Chanlay, "I am of the same opinion; so
here I am"--and sheathing his sword at these words, the young man issued
from his retreat and approached the group.
"M. de Talhouet," said Pontcalec, in the tone of a man who has a right
to issue commands, "watch that no one approaches."
M. de Talhouet obeyed, and rode round in a circle, keeping both eyes and
ears open.
"And now," said the marquis, "let us put out our lantern, since we have
found our man!"
"Messieurs," said De Chanlay, "all this seems to me somewhat strange. It
appears that you were following me--that you were seeking for me, now
you have found me, and may put out your lantern. What does it mean? If
it is a joke, I confess I think both time and place ill-chosen."
"No, monsieur," replied Pontcalec, in his hard, dry voice, "it is not a
joke; it is an interrogatory."
"An interrogatory?" said De Chanlay, frowning.
"An explanation, rather," said Montlouis.
"Interrogatory or explanation, it matters not," said Pontcalec, "the
thing is too serious to argue about words. M. de Chanlay, I repeat,
reply to our questions."
"You speak roughly, Marquis de Pontcalec," replied the chevalier.
"If I command, it is because I have the right to do so. Am I, or am I
not, your chief?"
"Certainly you are; but that is no reason for forgetting the
consideration which one gentleman owes to another."
"Monsieur de Chanlay, all these objections seem to me like shuffling.
You have sworn to obey--do so now."
"I swore to obey," replied the chevalier, "but not as a servant."
"You swore to obey as a slave. Obey, then, or submit to the consequences
of your disobedience!"
"Monsieur le Marquis--!"
"My dear Gaston," cried Montlouis, "speak, I beg, as soon as possible:
by a word you can remove all suspicion."
"Suspicion!" cried Gaston, pale with anger, "am _I_ suspected, then?"
"Certainly you are," said Pontcalec, with his ordinary roughness. "Do
you think if we did not suspect you we should amuse ourselves by
following you on such a night as this?"
"Oh, that is quite another matter!" said Gaston, coldly; "tell me your
suspicions--I listen."
"Chevalier, remember the facts; we four were conspiring together, and
we did not seek your aid; you offered it, saying, that besides being
willing to aid in the public good, you had a private revenge to serve in
this. Am I not right?"
"You are."
"We received you--welcomed you as a friend, as a brother; we told you
all our hopes, all our plans; nay, more--you were elected, by chance,
the one to strike the glorious blow. Each one of us offered to take your
part, but you refused. Is it not so?"
"You have spoken the strictest truth, marquis."
"This very morning we drew the lots; this evening you should be on the
road to Paris. Instead of that, where do we find you? on the road to
Clisson, where are lodged the mortal enemies of Breton independence,
where lives your sworn foe--the Marechal de Montesquieu."
"Ah! monsieur," said Gaston, scornfully.
"Reply by open words, and not by sneers: reply, M. de Chanlay, and
quickly."
"Reply, Gaston," said Du Couedic and Montlouis, imploringly.
"And to what am I to reply?"
"You are to account for your frequent absence during the last two
months--for the mystery which surrounds you--for refusing, as you do,
once or twice weekly, to join our nightly meetings. We confess, Gaston,
all this has made us uneasy; by a word you can reassure us."
"You see, monsieur, that you are proved guilty by hiding, instead of
pursuing your course."
"I did not pursue my course, because my horse was wounded; you may see
the stains of blood upon the road."
"But why did you hide?"
"Because I wished to know first who was pursuing me. Have I not the fear
of being arrested, as well as yourselves?"
"And where are you going?"
"If you had followed my steps as you have done hitherto, you would have
found that my path did not lead to Clisson."
"Nor to Paris."
"I beg," said De Chanlay, "that you will trust me, and respect my
secret--a secret in which not only my own honor, but that of another, is
concerned. You do not know, perhaps--it may be exaggerated--how extreme
is my delicacy on this point."
"Then it is a love-secret," said Montlouis.----"Yes, and the secret of a
first love," replied Gaston.
"All evasions," cried Pontcalec.
"Marquis!" said Gaston, haughtily.
"This is not saying enough, my friend," replied Du Couedic. "How can we
believe that you are going to a rendezvous in such weather, and that
this rendezvous is not at Clisson--where, except the Augustine Convent,
there is not a single house for two miles around."
"M. de Chanlay," said the Marquis de Pontcalec, in an agitated voice,
"you swore to obey me as your chief, and to devote soul and body to our
holy cause. Monsieur, our undertaking is serious--our property, our
liberties, our lives and our honor are at stake;--will you reply clearly
and freely to the questions which I put to you in the name of all, so as
to remove all doubts? If not, Gaston de Chanlay--by virtue of that right
which you gave me, of your own free will, over your life--if not, I
declare, on my honor, I will blow your brains out with my own hand!"
A solemn silence followed these words; not one voice was raised to
defend Gaston; he looked at each one in turn, and each one turned away
from him.
"Marquis," said the chevalier at length, in a tone of deep feeling, "not
only do you insult me by suspicions, but you grieve me by saying that I
can only remove those suspicions by declaring my secret. Stay," added
he, drawing a pocketbook from his coat, and hastily penciling a few
words on a leaf which he tore out; "stay, here is the secret you wish to
know; I hold it in one hand, and in the other I hold a loaded pistol.
Will you make me reparation for the insult you have offered me? or, in
my turn, I give you my word as a gentleman that I will blow my brains
out. When I am dead, open my hand and read this paper; you will then see
if I deserved your suspicions."
And Gaston held the pistol to his head with the calm resolution which
showed that he would keep his word.
"Gaston! Gaston!" cried Montlouis, while Du Couedic held his arm; "stop,
in Heaven's name! Marquis, he would do as he said; pardon him, and he
will tell us all. Is it not so, Gaston? You will not have a secret from
your brothers, who beg you, in the names of their wives and children, to
tell it them."
"Certainly," said the marquis, "I not only pardon but love him; he knows
it well. Let him but prove his innocence, and I will make him every
reparation, but, before that, nothing: he is young, and alone in the
world. He has not, like us, wives and children, whose happiness and
whose fortune he is risking; he stakes only his own life, and he holds
that as cheaply as is usual at twenty years of age; but with his life he
risks ours; and yet, let him say but one word showing a justification,
and I will be the first to open my arms to him."
"Well, marquis," said Gaston, after a few moments' silence, "follow me,
and you shall be satisfied."
"And we?" asked Montlouis and Du Couedic.
"Come, also, you are all gentlemen; I risk no more in confiding my
secret to all than to one."
The marquis called Talhouet, who had kept good watch, and now rejoined
the group, and followed without asking what had passed.
All five went on but slowly, for Gaston's horse was lame; the chevalier
guided them toward the convent, then to the little rivulet, and at ten
paces from the iron gate he stopped.
"It is here," said he.
"Here?"
"At the convent?"
"Yes, my friends; there is here, at this moment, a young girl whom I
have loved since I saw her a year ago in the procession at the Fete Dieu
at Nantes; she observed me also--I followed her, and sent her a letter."
"But how do you see her?" asked the marquis.
"A hundred louis won the gardener over to my interest; he has given me a
key to this gate; in the summer I come in a boat to the convent wall;
ten feet above the water is a window, where she awaits me. If it were
lighter, you could see it from this spot--and, in spite of the darkness,
I see it now."
"Yes, I understand how you manage in summer, but you cannot use the boat
now."
"True; but, instead, there is a coating of ice, on which I shall go this
evening; perhaps it will break and engulf me; so much the better, for
then, I hope, your suspicions would die with me."
"You have taken a load from my breast," said Montlouis.
"Ah! my poor Gaston, how happy you make me; for, remember, Du Couedic
and I answered for you."
"Chevalier," said the marquis, "pardon and embrace us."
"Willingly, marquis; but you have destroyed a portion of my happiness."
"How so?"
"I wished my love to have been known to no one. I have so much need of
strength and courage! Am I not to leave her to-night forever?"
"Who knows, chevalier? You look gloomily at the future."
"I know what I am saying, Montlouis."
"If you succeed--and with your courage and sang-froid you ought to
succeed--France is free: then she will owe her liberty to you, and you
will be master of your own fate."
"Ah! marquis, if I succeed, it will be for you; my own fate is fixed."
"Courage, chevalier; meanwhile, let us see how you manage these love
affairs."
"Still mistrust, marquis?"
"Still; my dear Gaston, I mistrust myself: and, naturally enough; after
being named your chief, all the responsibility rests on me, and I must
watch over you all."
"At least, marquis, I am as anxious to reach the foot of that wall as
you can be to see me, so I shall not keep you waiting long."
Gaston tied his horse to a tree; by means of a plank thrown across, he
passed the stream, opened the gate, and then, following the palisades so
as to get away from the stream, he stepped upon the ice, which cracked
under his feet.
"In Heaven's name," cried Montlouis, "be prudent."
"Look, marquis," said Gaston.
"I believe you; I believe you, Gaston."
"You give me fresh courage," replied the chevalier.
"And now, Gaston, one word more. When shall you leave?"
"To-morrow at this time, marquis, I shall probably be thirty leagues on
the way to Paris."
"Come back and let us embrace, and say adieu."----"With pleasure."
Gaston retraced his steps, and was embraced cordially by each of the
chevaliers, who did not turn away till they saw that he had arrived
safely at the end of his perilous journey.