“Ah, Monsieur l’Abbé, you have forgotten. It was from you yourself I
heard the words, ‘My first penitent was a murderer;’ and the first
time I ever saw Monsieur de Bourmont at Holyrood, he said, ‘I was the
Abbé de Ronceray’s first penitent.’”
“He was wrong. He was not my first penitent; he was my second. I was
locked up alone in the room with the murderer when Monsieur de Bourmont
arrived, and the confession was made me by that miserable man before
Monsieur de Bourmont came near me. He, too, went to confession for
the first time in many years, and I recall he said, at the time, that
he was my first penitent,--I had been his superior officer, you may
remember,--and I did not contradict him; but it was a mistake.”
There was a long pause after this, and the abbé carefully avoided
looking at Sister Claire. Presently he continued:--
“I was not present when he made the assertion which so misled you, else
I would have contradicted him then.”
A still longer pause followed, and the abbé heard Sister Claire say to
herself:--
“Bastien was the man who killed my brother.”
The old priest seemed not to hear Sister Claire’s words. He only said,
in a mildly vexed tone:--
“How well should one guard the tongue! And how unguarded was mine!
I think the Evil One must have been at my elbow when I made that
indiscreet remark. Forget it, my child!”
He still kindly looked away from Sister Claire, and began to speak of
resignation under sorrows, and those other commonplaces which wait upon
human misery. His voice sounded far away to Sister Claire. It seemed to
come from a great distance,--beyond the convent wall, with its wealth
of roses; beyond the fields and the vineyards, where the shadows lay
long in the declining sun. After a long, long while, some faint words
escaped her. She tried to speak calmly, but her words were half-sobbed
out:--
“I am glad--more glad than I can say--that Monsieur de Bourmont is not,
as I thought, guilty of my brother’s blood. But I think it is right he
should know the mistake--the cruel mistake I was under. Tell him so, I
beg of you; and tell him also that I ask his pardon for ever suspecting
him of such a thing.”
“I will see him and repeat to him every word you ask me,” replied the
abbé.
Then they both rose, and involuntarily walked down the flagged path
toward the door. Sister Claire was struggling with her agitation, but
she was conquering it. Presently she spoke again.
“When I left Holyrood--suddenly, Monsieur l’Abbé, you may remember--I
wrote a few lines of farewell to Monsieur de Bourmont. I did not tell
him why I left,--he does not know to this day.”
The old abbé knew well enough what her incoherent words meant; he
supplied the meaning without the least trouble. When, at last, he felt
it was safe to look at Sister Claire, he began to believe that, after
all, nothing could be better than what was. De Bourmont had done heroic
things, and Sister Claire would do things equally heroic.
“Remember, my child,” he said, “the believer who puts his hand to the
plough--”
“Let him not look back,” continued Sister Claire, in a thrilling voice.
“Much better--much better to go on. Say to Monsieur de Bourmont that I
hope he will be happy; and I shall not be--unhappy.”
[Illustration: “‘Tell him so, I beg of you.’”]
“No; you will not be unhappy,” replied the abbé. He was exalted enough
to see that Sister Claire had before her a great and useful life, and
such people are to be envied, not pitied. They stood together at the
convent door with clasped hands. It was a solemn parting, for each felt
it was for all time.
“Good-by, my child. You will be happy,” were the abbé’s parting
words. Sister Claire did not speak, but stood at the door watching
his tall, thin, but still soldierly figure as it disappeared down the
poplar-bordered lane. Purple shadows were falling upon the landscape,
and the scent of the roses grew almost painfully sweet. Sister Claire
lifted a pale, glorified face toward the opaline sky, where a new moon
hung low, like a silver lamp, and her lips moved in prayer. Suddenly a
bell clanged loudly four times behind her. It was her number--she was
needed. She turned to go, and met the superior face to face.
“You look pale, sister,” said the superior, kindly. “These visits from
the outside world are sometimes agitating. Have you heard bad news?”
“No, I have not, mother; I have heard very good news,” answered Sister
Claire. “A person whom I deeply loved, I thought had been guilty of a
crime; and I have this day, this hour, found that he is innocent,”--and
she went upon her task with a face like an angel’s.
V
SOME Sisters of Mercy have one vocation--some another. Sister Claire’s
was for helping the private soldiers, nursing them when they were ill,
binding up their hurts when they were wounded, comforting them when
they were dying, and even scolding them very effectively when they were
in the guard-house. This patrician was never more at home than with
Jean Baptiste, who marched away from home with a light knapsack and
a heavy heart, and who did not always know enough to keep out of the
sergeant’s black books. It was the Jean Baptistes whom Sister Claire
loved, and she was loved in turn by them. She was very gentle with them
when they were ill and suffering,--but when drinking and gambling and
other wrongdoings came to her notice, who could be more severe than
Sister Claire?
“I am ashamed of you, Jean Baptiste,” she would say sternly to a
_vieille moustache_, who had gone through a dozen campaigns scathless,
only to be floored at last at the wine-shop. “You, whom I thought one
of the best men in the battalion! What is to become of the conscripts
if the older men act like you? I have a great mind to leave the army
and go back to teaching young ladies the harp in the convent.” Sister
Claire had not the remotest idea of doing this, but the awful threat
struck fear to the heart of Jean Baptiste. The other sisters were
kind--oh, yes--kindness itself--but Sister Claire was the soldier’s
friend. The officers admired and respected her, and found Sister
Claire’s influence of substantial benefit in the matter of discipline.
But with these men of her own class she was more reserved. She was then
more Lady Betty Stair than Sister Claire of the Sisters of Mercy. By
that subtle freemasonry among classes, the officers knew they were
associating with a person born to rank and position when dealing with
her, and she used this feeling very artfully for the benefit of her
poor soldiers. This woman, who would wait on sick Jean Baptiste as if
she were his servant, would, unconsciously to herself, wear a grand air
when face to face with his officer. She would ask a favor with the calm
assumption that it must be done for her, very much as in the old days
she would desire a cavalier to pick up her fan; and she would accept
it with the graceful condescension of a great lady. She always made
her requests in person, shrewdly surmising that to say “no” was more
difficult than to write “no;” and it became a joke among the officers
how completely they stood in awe of this slight, tranquil little Sister
of Mercy. She did not cast down her eyes when she spoke to a man as
the French sisters did, but looked at them so fully and brightly that
the boldest dragoon of them felt like a schoolboy before her.
The rule of the Sisters of Mercy is a strict one; nevertheless, they
are very wise women, and if one of their order displays a great and
singular aptitude for a thing, she is allowed to follow the path so
clearly indicated to her. So it was that Sister Claire never more
taught polite accomplishments to young ladies, but worked steadily in
her chosen field.
Her first duty almost was with the army in Egypt. She had then an
ambulance of her own, and the little canvas-covered wagon was pretty
sure to be close up to the line of fire. She went through the whole
time of the French occupation of Egypt, including the terrible retreat
from Acre, without a scratch or a day’s illness; but one of the last
shots fired at the retreating French column struck her. The wound
was severe, but she never lost consciousness while the surgeons were
dressing it. All along the dreary road lay the wounded, begging to
be carried along with the army and not be suffered to perish on the
desert. And their cries and prayers so affected Sister Claire, who
implored that they might be taken into her wagon, that the surgeon in
charge gave her a dose of opium, which put her to sleep at the time and
made her very angry afterwards.
The Napoleonic wars gave her plenty to do. She followed her dear
soldiers to Germany, to Spain, and even a part of the way to
Russia--she, who had seen the sun rise on the day of Austerlitz, also
witnessed the passage of the Beresina. And by means which she never
understood, but devoutly thanked God for, she succeeded in getting
her ambulance across the river on that dreadful day, and saved the
ten wounded men of whom she had charge. It was in the days of 1814,
though, that she was of the most service. From the battle of Leipsic
until the surrender of Paris, there was scarcely a day that she was not
under fire. She was wounded three times, but all of her wounds were
slight, and she lost little time through them. She was at Waterloo,
and after working all night on the field, in the pouring rain, for the
first time in her life she fainted away, falling among a heap of dead
cuirassiers. When day broke, and the bodies were being removed, she
was found there. Groans and sobs of grief went up--when Sister Claire,
suddenly sitting up, asked:--
“Are the English in retreat?”
Alas! they were not--though soon Sister Claire was, but meanwhile doing
all she could for the wounded among the fugitives.
All this time, no hardened veteran stood fire better than Sister
Claire. She adopted that cheerful maxim,--“Every bullet has its
billet,”--and went about her business of binding up wounds and
staunching blood as calmly under the dropping fire of musketry, or the
roar of artillery, as if she were hearing a catechism class in the
convent garden.
And how was it with her heart in all those years? She scarcely knew
herself. Only that, whenever a sudden wild agony of regret seized her,
when she was tempted to rush up the greatest height she could find and
throw herself madly from it into the abyss of death, there was always
before her some suffering fellow-creature who needed her services at
that very moment; whose pain was so great it could not wait, and she
must stay and help that agonized soul and body. She counted among her
blessings that, whenever these paroxysms of despair had seized her,
there would be the ever-present sufferer; and she came to believe
silently, and with a tender and reverent superstition, that, like the
saint of old who gave his coat to a beggar, and that beggar revealed
himself presently as the Man of Sorrows, so was she tending Him in the
persons of His poor.
She had not failed to follow De Bourmont’s career, and knew every
step of promotion he gained, and thrilled with pride at it. As for
De Bourmont, from the day he threw his sword into the scale of the
Emperor, he scarcely had time to think, for fifteen years. In all
those years he had been in active service, and it was not until after
Waterloo, where he had been severely wounded, that the march of events
in his career stopped long enough for him to look backward and forward
at his life. In the long days of his convalescence in the country,
he began to examine himself and what lay before and behind him. Like
the Abbé de Ronceray, he scarcely recognized himself for what he had
been fifteen years before. He was over forty, a soldier seasoned
in battles, and too old to learn anything else. He had been cruelly
disappointed in the first and only deep love of his life, and the
memory of Lady Betty Stair was still too dear to him for any other
woman to have the mastery of his heart. He had learned from the abbé
the whole story of her sudden flight from Holyrood, and, manlike, he
could not persuade himself that she could be happy after the sacrifice
she had made. He imagined her spending a life of calm seclusion in a
convent, and did not suspect that she was almost as much of a soldier
as himself; and, like her, he came in time to feel that there was but
one life before him,--a life of duty. His career in the army had been
brilliant up to 1815, but he had been too closely identified with the
Emperor to enjoy the favor of the Bourbons, whom he had once served.
And so, after that, it was somewhat dull and obscure, until the French
dream of conquest in Africa was brought to pass, some years after
Waterloo.
In those years Sister Claire went about from one barrack hospital to
another, for soldiers need tending in peace as well as in war. The
years that made De Bourmont more sombre and taciturn, made her brighter
and calmer. So much brightness and calmness of spirit could not but
be reflected in her face, and, being beautiful in the beginning, she
seemed to grow more so as time went on. Age passed her by. The activity
of her life was such that her figure retained its airy slightness, and
she continued to walk with the graceful swiftness with which she had
moved through the dismal corridors of Holyrood Palace.
In the twenties, France had constant trouble with Algiers, and Sister
Claire was sent out to Africa, at the head of a band of sisters, to
nurse the sick. She had a fine hospital, though small, and government
aid, and never, in all her religious life, was she so comfortable in
certain ways; but never did Sister Claire become so nearly dissatisfied.
“I do not understand civilians very well, dear mother,” she wrote to
the superior. “I have been used so long to nursing Jean Baptiste,
to scolding him, and making him obey the doctor, and take care of
his shoes, and even to washing his one shirt for him, that I cannot
accustom myself to the dilettante ways of other people, who know as
well how to take care of themselves as I do.”
One fine morning in 1827, though, a great French fleet was seen off the
town of Algiers, and a cannonade began. It cannot be denied that the
first batch of wounded sailors brought into Sister Claire’s hospital
caused her to feel at least twenty years younger; and from that on,
she had her beloved soldiers, as well as sailors, to nurse, and was
correspondingly happy.
When the first advance in force, of twenty thousand men, was determined
on, the French surgeon-general, who was an old acquaintance of Sister
Claire’s, came to her and said, bluntly:
“You must come with us. You are worth the whole medical staff when it
comes to actual fighting in the field.”
“Do you think I would have stayed behind?” somewhat indignantly asked
Sister Claire.
On a June evening, the French column started for the plateau, where it
was well understood that the Algerians meant to give battle. It was a
fine sight, and as Sister Claire sat in her little white-covered cart,
watching the beautiful precision with which cavalry, infantry, and
artillery took their place in line, she felt more excited than she had
since 1815. As the second division, headed by the artillery, was about
to move, a general officer rode out from among the group of officers
around the commander-in-chief and took his place at the head of the
column. A tremendous cheer greeted him, which he acknowledged by
lifting his chapeau and bowing ceremoniously. He was a long distance
away from Sister Claire; but when the fading light fell upon his head,
which was quite gray, and his bronzed features, she suddenly caught
her breath and turned white. She did not need to ask his name; the
thirty years of their separation melted away in one instant of time;
it was De Bourmont. Several hours passed before the little ambulance
brought up the end of the rear guard. As the wagon jolted over the
rough road, sometimes brilliantly illuminated for a moment by the moon,
which sailed high in the heavens, and, again, lost in the impenetrable
darkness of wood and ravine, Sister Claire sat quite silent. Usually,
like an old soldier, she was gay at the prospect of going into battle;
but on this June night, under an African sky, she scarcely spoke to her
companion, another white-capped sister, who, like herself, placid and
silent, awaited the labors of the morrow.
Sister Claire’s retrospection was keen, but not unhappy. She knew De
Bourmont’s reputation in the army well,--intrepid, devoted to his duty,
idolized by his men; he might have been happier, he could not have been
better. For herself, she had felt from the beginning the peace which
follows the putting away of self and the devotion of one’s life to
those who suffer.
The stars seemed large, and very near to her, as she looked out of
the hooded wagon up at the blue-black sky. It was not her first
night-march, by any means. She remembered them among the snows of
Russia; she recalled the night after Waterloo, and the drenching rain,
and all the horrors of that time. Near by was the steady tramp of
thousands of feet, and afar off, the rolling sound of the field guns
on the rocky road. The columns climbed upward steadily toward the
plateau. It was only a few leagues away; Sister Claire knew they would
make it before daylight. Then she must be ready for work, getting the
ambulance in order, so it would be well for her to sleep. She lay down
in the bottom of the cart with her companion, and in five minutes was
sleeping peacefully. But she had said, with fervor, the little prayer
she made every night for De Bourmont; and she had done this for more
than thirty years.
The gray sky of dawn was changing to an all rose and opal tint when the
cart halted, and Sister Claire, with the surgeon-in-chief, surveyed
the field with an eye to establishing her ambulance. On one side
the torrent Midiffla flowed noisily, while rugged ravines and rocky
hills and dales were before the French troops. Already the ferocious
tribesmen were seen, hovering in great numbers on the horizon, while
the distant roll of wheels over the stony ground showed that the
Algerians were provided with artillery.
Sister Claire chose her position with a soldier’s eye.
“It is here, I think, Monsieur le Docteur,” she said, pointing to a
little hollow well up the side of the plateau, but protected from the
probable range of fire. “Our brave ‘enfants’ will make a stand here;
and, you see, there is a fairly good road to a spot lower down, where
the wounded may be transported after their wounds are dressed, and be
quite safe.”
The doctor shrugged his shoulders. “It will be pretty hot up here,” he
said.
“Of course,” replied Sister Claire, coolly; “but where it is hot, is
where we are needed.”
“Well, sister,” responded the doctor, laughing, “you are an old
campaigner, and have been under fire oftener than I have--and for the
honor of my profession I will not ask for a safer place.”
Scarcely had the bright lances of the June sunrise lit up the
plain than thirty thousand Algerians were seen, formed in a long,
crescent-shaped line, with the artillery in the middle, advancing.
The red-legged French soldiers awaited the order to advance--in high
spirits, laughing, singing, and indulging in that horse-play which
French discipline allows until the actual moment of going into action.
They were formed into three divisions, and Sister Claire had no trouble
in picking out, among the brilliant staff that was assembled under the
shade of an ilex grove, the figure of De Bourmont. The French paid no
attention to the great bodies of Kabyle horsemen who, dashing up close
to their lines, would fire a volley, then turn and fly. Their fire did
little damage, and when they grew bolder, and came nearer, a volley
from the French muskets scattered them. When, however, the Algerian
centre advanced upon the plateau, then the French went to work in
earnest. As the first line of the French moved forward, the infantry
on the run, the artillery on the trot, and at the first dash gained a
quarter of a mile, Sister Claire turned to the doctor, giving him back
his field-glass, which she had been using. “We shall have work soon,
monsieur,” she said, calmly.
And work they had. Outnumbered two to one, the disciplined troops of
France had to defend themselves on all sides. The clouds of dust raised
by the multitude of Arab horsemen obscured them so that they were upon
the French bayonets before they knew it. The Arabs left scarcely any
wounded. As long as an Arab breathes, he can sit in his queer, box-like
saddle, and the trained horses knew well enough when to turn and
gallop back to their own line. The French had established themselves
on a ledge of rocks, just rising above the plateau; but they could
not remain there,--they must retreat or advance. If they advanced, so
small was their force, they were in danger of being surrounded and cut
to pieces; and if they retreated--but they had no thought of retreat.
Sister Claire, in the intervals of her work, saw De Bourmont’s figure
plainly, when he dismounted and, drawing his sword, headed what the
expressive French phrase calls “les enfants perdus” as they made a dash
for the hill where the Algerian guns thundered. She did not stop for
one moment from dressing the hideous wound of a _vieille moustache_,
who had groaned and shrieked horribly until he recognized Sister
Claire; but she kept on praying while she was talking.
“Come, now,” said she, “it is very bad indeed; but you will get well.
I’ve seen worse ones than this. Did we not make the passage of the
Beresina together?”
“True, sister,” answered the poor creature, “and the pain is not so bad
after all.”
And meanwhile, on the abrupt slope of the hill, the Algerian guns were
thundering, and the masses of French infantry, each regiment led by
its colonel, were moving steadily toward the circle of guns, from which
the red death poured in sheets of flame and smoke, making the June
morning dark. And every step they advanced, they left behind them men
writhing on the stony ground.
“We must go farther on,” cried Sister Claire, suddenly; “we cannot get
those wounded men here; we must go to them. You stay here, sister,” she
said to her companion. “Come, doctor; come, Pierre and Auguste, let us
go!” and seizing a basket of lint and bandages, she started briskly up
the hill, quickly followed by the doctor and two or three bearers; and
then the men began to bring the wounded to her, and soon she and the
doctor were surrounded by a circle of bleeding creatures. Never was
she more active or more helpful, but in the fearful struggle going on
before her eyes, scarcely half a mile’s distance, she could see, at
intervals, De Bourmont’s martial figure on foot, and always heading
the line. They had reached the Algerian batteries now, and there was
hand-to-hand fighting, the Algerians being bayoneted at their guns,
while another column of red legs moved steadily up the incline to
support De Bourmont’s column.
In the midst of it all, the sharp screech of a shell was heard above
the spot where the doctor and Sister Claire worked side by side among
a crowd of wounded men, and the next moment it dropped among them. The
doctor, the bearers, and even the sufferers themselves were paralyzed,
for the fuse was still burning. Not so Sister Claire. She quickly
picked up the shell and ran with the activity of a girl of twenty down
the hillside. A cheer broke from the doctor and the bearers, and even
the poor wounded men joined faintly in the cry. Sister Claire had gone
nearly a hundred yards, when she laid the shell down carefully and
turned to run back. She was just half a minute too late. A deafening
report was heard, and she was seen to fall to the ground, bleeding from
a dozen wounds; and at the same moment a shout went up from thousands
of throats as De Bourmont, mounting his horse, dashed forward in
pursuit of the flying Algerians.
* * * * *
The hospital of the Sisters of Mercy at Algiers was a pleasant place;
and when, many days after this, Sister Claire awoke to consciousness,
there was rejoicing, not only in the hospital, but among the soldiers,
too. Every day the gate had been besieged by men coming to inquire
after her, and when at last it was known that she would recover, the
joy of the Jean Baptistes was touching. Many officers had sent to ask
after her, but they did not cry, as the soldiers did, when told at
first that she could not get well, and laugh some days after, when told
that she could.
[Illustration: “She was just half a minute too late.”]
Many months passed on. The French were everywhere victorious, and by
October, the rainy season beginning, all of the troops were recalled to
the neighborhood of the city of Algiers.
By that time Sister Claire was quite well, and apparently her terrible
experience had done her no harm at all. She was deeply interested in
the results of the campaign, and heard with delight of the rescue of
Christian captives, and the chances that the nation of corsairs was
likely to be no more a scourge to civilization. She also knew that the
general in command had gone back to France on sick leave, and General
de Bourmont was temporarily in command. And one morning, sitting in the
garden and looking toward the glorious Bay of Algiers, she saw a smart
French frigate drop her anchor, and one of the convalescent officers
said to her:--
“That is ‘La Minerve.’ She brings out the decorations for the campaign.
General de Bourmont is sure to be made lieutenant-general.”
A day or two after that, one morning, the superior came to Sister
Claire’s room--for she was a guest of her own order then--and said,
smiling proudly:
“What think you, sister? We are especially invited to attend at the
distribution of decorations to-morrow morning. Here is a letter from
General de Bourmont; and he particularly wishes you to be present, he
says, on account of your services to the army. But the rest of us are
not forgotten either, and the general speaks in the kindest manner of
what little we have been able to do for our poor soldiers.”
The superior did not offer to show Sister Claire the letter from
General de Bourmont, and Sister Claire did not ask to see it; but, like
the superior, she glowed with natural pride at the compliment paid
their order.
All that day the sisters were in a flutter; and among themselves, when
Sister Claire was not present, they said: “How glorious! how honorable
to our order! We must give especial thanks to the Blessed Lady for
this.”
Sister Claire, however, was purposely kept in the dark; and the next
morning she was the least excited of the party of twenty sisters who
took their way, two and two, toward the great plain on the south of the
city.
Never was the scene more beautiful. The rains had begun, and in a few
days the face of the earth had become green with the most luxuriant
foliage. The ships in the little harbor were dressed in honor of the
occasion, and the French frigate, anchored in the bay, was covered with
flags. On the great plain were found ten thousand men, on three sides
of a square. The fourth side was left open, and facing it was General
de Bourmont and a splendid staff. Upon the surrounding heights were
great multitudes of people,--French, Arabs, Jews, Turks, all watching
the scene. A blare of military music smote the morning air, as all the
bands in the French-African army crashed out.
Sister Claire’s heart beat; yes, De Bourmont was to have the reward of
valor; it was just. And he had that other reward,--the esteem and love
which waits upon a commander who loves his men like his children.
Sister Claire had supposed that they would simply be given good
positions where they could see the ceremonies of the day, and was
rather surprised when the superior, with whom she was walking,
moved directly toward the opening in the hollow square; and she was
still more surprised when a young aide dashed up, and, dismounting,
respectfully led the little band of white-capped nuns to a position
very near the staff. And, strangely enough, she began to be agitated,
and to feel as if some crisis in her life were at hand. General de
Bourmont would probably come up after the ceremonies were over and
speak to them--and would he recognize her? And then the bands stopped
suddenly, and Sister Claire, looking up, heard the young officer who
had escorted them saying, with a smile: “Sister, I believe it is your
turn first to be decorated.”
Sister Claire looked at him in dumb amazement, and then looked toward
the superior.
“It is true, sister,” said the superior, who was also smiling, but
whose eyes were moist. “You are to be decorated. We knew some time ago
that you had been recommended, and your decoration arrived yesterday,
and we have arranged this as a glorious surprise to you.”
Sister Claire’s face grew a rosy red. She hesitated a moment,
but the aide, bowing low, and pointing to the waiting group of
officers, where a number of soldiers of all ages who were to be
decorated were assembled near them, she advanced with him toward the
commander-in-chief. It was some distance across the sand, glowing with
the morning sun, and the fierceness of the glare and the emotion
that she feared showed in her usually calm face, kept her eyes to the
ground. But when she reached the general and his staff, and had paused,
a voice rang out that thrilled her to the soul. It was that of General
de Bourmont, as he said:--
“Sister Claire!”
At that she raised her eyes, and her gaze met De Bourmont’s. For some
moments each forgot everything in the world except the other. They
forgot the stretch of more than thirty years since last they had looked
into each other’s eyes. They forgot the waiting thousands of troops,
the vast multitude of spectators. The white sand and fierce sun of
Algiers melted into the gloomy old palace of Holyrood. They were once
more De Bourmont and Lady Betty Stair. As they stood thus, each reading
the other’s soul through the eyes, some keen inner sympathy told them
that, however much their hearts had suffered, their souls had thriven
on that nobler life that each had led. And as they felt clearly and
more clearly every moment, that in those years of self-sacrifice, and
of that agony of separation, their newer and better selves had been
born and lived and suffered, so did the dazzling happiness of the
life they might have lived together reveal itself in all its splendid
beauty. Those moments of solemn exaltation seemed like an age to Sister
Claire and De Bourmont; but, in truth, it was only long enough to make
the gorgeous group of waiting officers wonder at De Bourmont’s strange
silence; and when he spoke, his voice was not altogether calm.
“When scarcely more than twenty-three years of age, you followed our
soldiers to Egypt and faithfully tended them. You were severely wounded
in the retreat from Acre. You followed the French army to Spain, to
Germany, and even to Russia. Your courage in saving ten wounded men
at the passage of the Beresina is remembered. You were in every battle
from the frontier to the gates of Paris, in 1814, and were three times
wounded. At Waterloo you were carried off the field for dead among the
corpses of a number of cuirassiers. For three years you have labored
in Algiers, and at the battle of Staoueli, when a shell with a burning
fuse fell near your ambulance, endangering the lives of your wounded,
you picked it up and carried it more than eighty yards before it
exploded, wounding you terribly. But your life was preserved in all
these dangers, and you have been spared to the soldiers who love you
so well. His Majesty, knowing of your devotion to our army, has placed
your name at the head of those who are to be rewarded to-day. And, by
his command, I present you with the Cross for Tried Bravery. None has
deserved it more than you.”
At the first sound of his voice both of them came back out of that
shadowy world in which their other selves had met face to face. De
Bourmont’s voice grew stronger as he continued speaking; and he fixed
his eyes upon her angelic face, shining under her nun’s bonnet. She
noticed that he was gray and very grave. She knew, then, as well as if
a thousand tongues had told her, that, from the day of their parting,
the gay, the careless, the dashing De Bourmont had ceased to exist, and
in his place was this earnest and devoted soldier, who lived for his
country and was ready to die for it. She became conscious by degrees
of the scene around her,--the African sun blazing upon the white sand,
the imposing sight of many thousands of veterans assembled to see valor
rewarded. And then, De Bourmont’s hand pinned a splendid decoration
upon her breast.
Ten thousand men presented arms to this brave woman; the officers, led
by General de Bourmont, saluted with their swords; the multitude burst
into thunders of cheers; the bands rang out a patriotic air; and Sister
Claire stood with downcast head and tears dropping upon the coarse
habit she wore. After a moment she looked up into De Bourmont’s eyes.
Each understood the other. The love of the young soldier and the Lady
Betty Stair had lasted through more than thirty years, and in that time
it had become so purified and ennobled that it was not unworthy of the
angels themselves. In De Bourmont’s face might yet be seen a haunting
disappointment; but in his heart he could not, as a lover of his
fellow-man, believe that Sister Claire’s life might have been happier.
Late that afternoon, Sister Claire, who had been busy writing in her
cell at the gray old convent, went into the garden to look for the
superior. The garden, with its olive groves and clumps of fig-trees,
was very cool and sweet after the heat of the day. The superior and
two or three of the sisters were walking up and down a shaded alley;
they were still talking about the glories of that day for one of their
order.
“I came to show you, mother, a letter I have written to General de
Bourmont,” said Sister Claire. “We knew each other in our youth, and
it was thought at one time that he was responsible for the death of my
only brother. Afterward it was proved that he was not, and I took pains
to have him informed of it. Here is the letter I have written him”:--
GENERAL DE BOURMONT:--I desire to express to his Majesty,
and to yourself personally, my heartfelt thanks for the very great
honor conferred upon me. I only did my duty, as many others have
done, and I felt rewarded in the thought that I did it for God and my
fellow-creatures; but this other reward is not the less dear to me.
For yourself, General de Bourmont, accept my thanks and good wishes.
I have always remembered your goodness to me, of many years ago, and
I shall continue to do so and to pray for you to the last hour of my
life.
SISTER CLAIRE.
“A very proper letter,” said the mother superior, who was full of pride
in the great doings of the day; “and I will send it off immediately.”
Two hours afterward, when the sisters had had their supper in the
refectory, they were assembled again in the garden. The sun was gone
down, but a beautiful rosy haze lay over the landscape, and a young
moon trembled in the violet sky. One of the lay sisters came running
into the garden with a letter.
“It is for Sister Claire; and General de Bourmont himself brought it,”
she cried.
The sisters all gathered around. It was only a fitting winding up of
the glories of the day for Sister Claire to get a letter from the
general himself, delivered in person. There was still enough of the
pale and lingering light to read by, and Sister Claire read her letter
aloud in a clear, sweet voice:
General de Bourmont presents his respectful compliments to Sister
Claire, and has the honor of informing her that her thanks will be
personally conveyed by him to his Majesty. The noble career of Sister
Claire has been watched by the whole French army, and she will become,
more than ever, an object of respectful devotion to the soldiers of
France, of all ranks. It was unknown to General de Bourmont, though,
that in Sister Claire was his friend of former days. He remembers with
gratitude Sister Claire’s kindness to him at the long distant period
to which she refers; and he begs that she will always consider him her
friend and devoted servant during the rest of his life.
(Signed) DE BOURMONT.
“What a fine, splendid, brave letter!” cried all the sisters,
delighted; “and to think it should turn out that Sister Claire and
General de Bourmont are old friends!”
Presently all went indoors, except Sister Claire. She remained,
walking up and down, with her beautiful eyes fixed on the stars that
shone with soft splendor. Heaven seemed very near to her.
Afar off, on the sandy plain, De Bourmont sat on his horse quite
motionless, and looked toward the white-walled convent which held
Sister Claire. His eyes were full of tears for the broken hearts of
their youth; but he said to himself, “I would not have it different
now.”