IN WHICH HISTORY IS MINGLED WITH ROMANCE.
The real awaking of the country, the real beginning of the Revolution
dates from the year 1789. What France had endured for half a century
every one knows. Every one also knows that, becoming weary of poverty,
of the tyranny of the powerful, of the weakness of the king, of the
squandering of her treasure and of the intrigues of those in authority,
and compelled to find a remedy within herself, the country demanded the
convocation of the États Généraux. The government at last decided to
accede to the entreaties that were heard on every side; and it was
during the early part of the year 1789 that France was called upon to
elect her representatives; while, from one end of the kingdom to the
other, there was a general desire for a great and much needed reform.
The south did not take a less active part in this movement than the rest
of the country. Provence and Languedoc were shaken to their centres. In
all the region round about the Gardon--at Nîmes, in Beaucaire in Arles,
in Remoulins--political clubs were formed. The condition of the
peasantry, who had previously been condemned to a sort of slavery,
suddenly changed. The weak became the strong; the timid became the
audacious; the humble became the proud; and from the mouth of an
oppressed people issued a voice demanding liberty. This movement had
been ripe for some time among the lower classes, but it suddenly burst
forth and revealed itself in all its mighty power in the convocation of
the États Généraux.
In Nîmes and the surrounding country, the agitation caused by this great
event was increased by the remembrance of the religious warfare that had
been waged there between the Protestants and Catholics for more than a
century. This enmity blazed out afresh, greatly aggravating the
bitterness naturally caused by the elections. Were not these last a mere
pretext invented by one sect to conceal their evil designs against the
other? Was it only a conflict between the champions of the old and of
the new régime, or were these excited men eager to take up arms one
against the other, mere fanatics ready to condemn others to martyrdom
and to accept it themselves? History has not yet decided this important
question; and sectarian passion has not yet allowed an impartial critic
to be heard. Still, it is a well-known fact that throughout the province
of Languedoc, and notably in Nîmes, the political excitement was of the
most virulent character. Blood flowed there even sooner than in Paris.
The massacres at Nîmes preceded the celebrated massacres of September by
more than two years; and in Avignon, though this city was as yet French
only in its situation and in the language of its inhabitants, the reign
of terror was at its height in the mouth of October, 1791.
In 1789, while the elections were in progress, signs of these coming
events began to manifest themselves. In Nîmes the Catholics and
Protestants were bitterly denouncing one another, quarrelling over the
local offices, and striving in every possible way to gain the
ascendancy. The Marquis de Chamondrin was a Catholic, but he was very
tolerant and liberal in his opinions. One of his ancestors, at the
imminent risk of exile, had boldly opposed the revocation of the Edict
of Nantes. The Marquis shared the opinions of his ancestor; despotism
found no champion in him. He had read the philosophers of his time, and
he was convinced that equality in rights if not in fortunes could be
established between men. He recognized the necessity of reform, but he
detested violence; and he exerted all his influence to secure
moderation, to reconcile opponents and to draw men together. Thus at
Nîmes, on more than one occasion, he had prevented the effusion of
blood. But the passions were so strongly excited in that locality at
that time that his efforts as a moderator gained him but one thing,
isolation. He drew down upon himself the hatred of those whom he wished
to calm; he did not even win the friendship of those whom he desired to
protect, and who, unless their peril was extreme, boldly declared that
they were able to protect themselves. His popularity, cleverly
undermined by his enemies, soon became impaired, and, weary of the
dissensions in which he was embroiled in spite of all his efforts, he
shut himself up in his château, resolving to keep a philosophical watch
over events, but to take no part in them.
A few days later, the États Généraux assembled at Versailles; but their
time was spent in bickerings and in sterile discussions while oppressed
and panting France vainly awaited the salutary reforms they were
expected to effect. From May, the date of their meeting, to the immortal
night of the Fourth of August, when the nation entered upon an era that
was to atone for so many disasters, one event succeeded another with
bewildering rapidity. The victorious resistance of the Third Estate to
the pretensions of the nobility and clergy; the proclamation of the
king; the movement of the French Guards; their imprisonment; their
deliverance by the people; the intrigues of the Orleans party; the
taking of the Bastile; the death of Foulon and of Berthier came one
after another to accelerate the progress of the revolutionary movement
which was already advancing rapidly.
In 1790, famine was at the gates of Paris and threatened to spread over
all France. Armed brigands, taking advantage of the general disorder,
began to lay waste the provinces. In many parts of the country, the
peasants joined them; in others, they resisted them. These brigands
attacked the châteaux, they burned several and pillaged others. Finally,
dread of a foreign foe was added to all these fears, and the people
accused the nobility of calling a foreign nation to their assistance.
These are some of the many events that served to distract Philip de
Chamondrin's mind from his disappointment and delay his marriage to
Antoinette de Mirandol. Anxious as the Marquis was to hasten this
union, he shared the general apprehension too strongly to urge his son
to marry at such a time. The inmates of the château were troubled and
depressed. Gloomy news from the outer world reached them daily. The
king's life was believed to be in danger. A dozen times Philip had
almost decided to start for Versailles to die, if need be, in the
service of his sovereign; but Coursegol succeeded in convincing him that
his presence was a necessity at Chamondrin, and that he could not go
away without leaving the Marquis and Antoinette exposed to the gravest
peril. Coursegol had several reasons for dissuading his young master
from his purpose, the chief of which was that he did not wish to go
himself. In case of actual danger, he could be of great service to the
Marquis. Thanks to his plebeian origin, to his many acquaintances and to
his reputation as a good fellow in Nîmes and in Beaucaire, he could
mingle with the crowd, converse with the peasantry, question the
artisans and discover their temper and plans. In case the château was
attacked, he would also be able to make many friends for the Marquis and
call quite a number of defenders to his aid. Then, too, he could not
endure the thought of going so far from Arles while Dolores was there,
alone and defenceless, and might need his protection at any moment.
So Philip did not go, but together with his father and Coursegol he
began to make arrangements for the defence of the château. They
augmented their force by the addition of three or four men upon whose
fidelity they could implicitly rely. Coursegol was also promised the
services of several peasants. The Marquis frequently visited the little
town of Remoulins, that lay a few miles from the château on the other
side of the Gardon, and he still had a few warm friends there, some of
whom had desired to send him to the États Généraux. They, too, promised
to come to his assistance in case of an attack on the castle. If the
former masters of Chamondrin had been tyrants this was now forgotten.
The large possessions which would have endowed them with feudal rights
were theirs no longer. For several years Dolores and the Marquise de
Chamondrin had endeavored to obliterate the memory of the past by
visiting the poor and the sick around them, and Antoinette de Mirandol
had perpetuated the memory of their good deeds by imitating their
example.
Hence they had nothing to apprehend from those in their immediate
neighborhood; but they had every reason to fear the many lawless bands
that were now scouring that region of country, ostensibly attracted
there by the fair that was to be held at Beaucaire in the month of
July--bands of armed and desperate men, who plundered and pillaged and
lived by rapine. The Bohemians, too, who passed the Pont du Gard each
spring and autumn, inspired the inmates of the château with no slight
dread, as it seemed more than likely they would take advantage of the
general disorder that prevailed to commit depredations upon any isolated
dwellings that tempted their cupidity. Moreover, north of Nîmes there
were several villages whose fanatical and intensely excited inhabitants
were strongly urged by their leaders to make an attack upon the
Catholics, who were accused of opposition to the reform movement. It was
rumored that these people intended to march upon Nîmes, burn the city
and put its population to the sword. Was there not good reason to fear
that these men, if they succeeded in this undertaking, would take it
into their heads to spread death and destruction beyond the walls of
Nîmes. No apprehension was ridiculous, no prudence was exaggerated at a
time when all France trembled.
Such were the causes that had induced the Marquis and his son to prepare
for an attack on the castle. In spite of their precautions, they could
not conceal these preparations from Antoinette. She courageously
assisted them, almost thankful for the perils that menaced their safety,
since they detained Philip at the château. She loved him even more
devotedly than ever, and, if she shuddered sometimes at the thought that
a life so precious to her might be endangered at any moment, she
comforted herself by thinking she would at least have the consolation of
dying with him.
But the Marquis was beset by many scruples. He felt that he did wrong to
expose Antoinette to such danger, since she did not yet belong to his
family and since he had promised her dying father to protect her and her
fortune until the day of her marriage. He finally decided to send her to
England, which she would find a safer retreat than the Château de
Chamondrin. He confided this project to Antoinette, but he had scarcely
broached the subject when, the girl interrupted him with these words:
"If you love me, do not separate me from Philip!"
The Marquis could not resist this entreaty. Antoinette remained.
While these events were taking place at the château, Dolores, immured in
the convent at Arles, was patiently awaiting the termination of the
imprisonment she had voluntarily imposed upon herself. After a sojourn
of several months in this saintly house, she experienced a great relief.
Solitude had calmed her sorrow. She still suffered, she would always
suffer, but she gathered from her faith and from noble resolutions
bravely accomplished that peace and resignation which a merciful Heaven
bestows upon all sad hearts that appeal to it of aid.
Dolores, as we have said before, entered the convent not as a novice,
but as a boarder. From the founding of the institution, that is to say,
from the beginning of the seventeenth century, the Carmelite nuns of
Arles, in obedience to the wishes of their foundress, to whose
liberality they owed the building and grounds which they occupied, had
offered an asylum to all gentlewomen who, from one cause or another,
desired to dwell in the shelter of those sacred walls without obeying
the rules of the order. Disconsolate widows, mothers mourning the loss
of their children, and orphans affrighted by the world found a peaceful
home there and a quiet life which was not unfrequently a step towards
the cloister.
When Dolores went to live at the convent, the boarders were seven in
number, all older than herself. They accorded a cordial welcome to the
young girl, who was soon at ease in their midst. Their life was very
simple. They lived in the convent, but not within the cloister. Rising
at six in the morning, they attended service in the chapel with the nuns
from whom they were separated by a grating. Between the hours of morning
and evening service they were at liberty to spend their time in whatever
way they chose. They all ate at the same table. Dolores spent her time
in working for the needy and for the institution. She made clothing for
poor children; she embroidered altar cloths for the chapel; she visited
the sick and destitute. Thus her life was peacefully devoted to prayer
and good works. She frequently received tidings from the château,
sometimes through letters written by the Marquis, sometimes through
Coursegol, who came to see her every month. She took a lively interest
in all that pertained to those whom she had left only to give them a new
proof of her affection and devotion. When Coursegol visited her, she
invariably spoke of her longing to return to Chamondrin. She hoped that
Philip and Antoinette would soon be married, and that she would be able
to go back to the loved home in which her happy childhood had been
spent. These hopes were never to be realized; that beloved home she was
destined never to behold again.
Early in June, Coursegol, in accordance with his usual habit, left the
château to pass a few days in Arles. He reached the city on the
fourteenth, and, after visiting Dolores, left for home on the morning of
the sixteenth.
He made the journey on foot. The sky was slightly veiled by fleecy,
white clouds that tempered the heat of the sun. The road between Arles
and Nîmes is charming, and Coursegol walked blithely along, inhaling
with delight the fresh morning breeze that came to him laden with the
vivifying fragrance of the olive and cypress. As he approached
Beaucaire, a pretty village on the bank of the Rhone, he noticed that an
unusual animation pervaded the place. Groups of peasants stood here and
there, engaged in excited conversation; every face wore an expression of
anxiety. He thought at first that these people must be going or
returning from some funeral; but he soon noticed that many were armed,
some with guns, some with scythes. On reaching the centre of the town,
he found the market-place full of soldiers; officers were giving excited
orders. It looked as if the town were arming to defend itself.
"What does all this mean?" inquired Coursegol, addressing a little group
of townspeople.
"Why, do you not know what has happened?" one man replied, in evident
astonishment.
"I have heard nothing. I have just arrived from Arles."
"Nîmes has been pillaged. The peasantry from the Cevennes have descended
upon the city and massacred three hundred people--laborers, bourgeois,
priests and nuns. They are now masters of the place, and it is feared
that a detachment of them is coming in this direction. We are making
ready to receive them."
"What! Have they advanced beyond Nîmes?" inquired Coursegol, appalled by
this news.
"Some of them advanced last night as far as the Pont du Gard. There
they sacked and burned the Château de Chamondrin!"
A ghastly pallor overspread Coursegol's features; he uttered a cry of
horror.
"What is the matter?" asked the man who had just apprised him of this
terrible calamity.
"My masters!--where are my masters?" cried poor Coursegol.
Then, without waiting for the response which no one could give, he
darted off like a madman in the direction of the Pont du Gard.
Although the events that took place in Nîmes early in 1790 have never
been clearly explained by an impartial historian, we have reason to
suppose that the public sentiment prevailing there at the time was
unfavorable to the Revolution. The Catholics of the south became
indignant when they learned that the Assembly wished to reform the
Catholic Church without consulting the Pope. From that day, they were
the enemies of the Revolution. Their protests were energetic, and from
protests they passed to acts. The Catholics took up arms ostensibly to
defend themselves against the Protestants, but chiefly to defend their
menaced religion. The Protestants, who were in communication with their
religious brethren in Paris and Montauban, were also ready to take the
field at any moment. A regiment was quartered in the city. The
sympathies of the officers were with the Catholics, who represented the
aristocracy in their eyes; the soldiers seemed to favor the
Protestants--the patriots. This division brought a new element of
discord into the civil war. This condition of affairs lasted several
months. A conflict between some of the National Guards--Catholics--and a
company of dragoons was the signal for a struggle that had become
inevitable. The Protestants of Nîmes sided with the dragoons; the
Catholics espoused the cause of the National Guards. Several of these
last were killed. This happened on the 13th of June. The following day,
bands of peasants, summoned to the aid of the Protestants from the
country north of Nîmes, descended upon the city. They entered it in an
orderly manner, as if animated by peaceful intentions; but many of the
men were either half-crazed fanatics or wretches who were actuated by a
desire for plunder. They ran through the streets, becoming more and more
excited until their fury suddenly burst forth and they rushed wildly
about the city, carrying death and devastation in their track. There was
a Capuchin monastery at Nîmes. They invaded this first, slaying the
priests at the foot of the altar in the church that still retains the
ineffaceable stain of their blood. The assassins then hastened to the
monastery of the Carmelites. The monks had fled. They sacked the church,
and then plundered a number of private houses. The bandits showed no
mercy. They opened a vigorous cannonade upon the tower of Froment where
many had taken refuge. In three days three hundred persons perished.
At the news of these massacres a cry of rage and terror rose from the
Catholic villages on the banks of the Rhone and the Gardon. The cry was
this:
"They are slaughtering our brothers at Nîmes!"
The influential men immediately assembled and counselled the frightened
and indignant populace to take up arms in their own defence. The tocsin
was sounded, and in a few hours several hundred men had assembled near
the Pont du Gard, ready to march upon Nîmes and punish the wretches who
had slain the innocent and defenceless. By unanimous consent the Marquis
de Chamondrin was made one of the leaders of this hastily improvised
army. He accepted the command with a few eloquent words, urging his men
to do their duty, and the army took up its line of march. Some gypsies,
who chanced to be near the Pont du Gard at the time, brought up the
rear, hoping that the fortunes of war would gain them an entrance into
the city of Nîmes that they might pillage and steal without restraint.
This manifestation of wrath on the part of the inhabitants of the
surrounding country terrified the assassins, and most of them took to
flight; but those who lived in Nîmes and who were alarmed for their own
safety and that of their families resolved to avert the blow that
menaced them.
There are traitors in every party, men ready to sell or to be sold; men
for whom treason and infamy are pathways to wealth. There were some of
these men in the Catholic ranks, and promises of gold induced them to go
out and meet the approaching army and assure its leaders that order was
re-established at Nîmes and that their entrance into the city would only
occasion a fresh outbreak. These emissaries accomplished their mission;
and that same evening all these men who had left home that morning
thirsting for vengeance returned quietly to their firesides.
But, unfortunately, the Marquis de Chamondrin had taken such an active
part in this demonstration that he had deeply incensed the assassins;
and the more ferocious of them resolved to wreak vengeance upon him by
pillaging and burning his château. A conspiracy was organized, and the
following night about forty men of both parties, or rather the scum and
refuse of both, started for Chamondrin. They knew the castle had but a
small number of defenders, and that Coursegol, the most formidable of
these, was absent at the time. They also knew that the isolated
situation of the château afforded its inmates little chance of succor,
and that, if they could succeed in surprising it, they could accomplish
their work of destruction before the inhabitants of Remoulins and the
surrounding villages could come to the aid of the Marquis and his
household. The plan was decided upon in a few hours; and the disorder
that prevailed throughout the country, the inertness of the authorities
and the want of harmony among the soldiery, all favored its execution.
About nine o'clock in the evening, the bandits stole quietly out of
Nîmes. They reached the Pont du Gard a little before midnight and halted
there to receive their final instructions before ascending the hill upon
the summit of which stood the Château de Chamondrin.
Here, they were joined by a dozen or more Bohemians who were encamped
near by, the same men who had accompanied the Catholics on their
expedition that same morning. They approached the bandits in the hope
that a new army was in process of organization for an attack upon the
city, and that they might accompany it. When they saw the band proceed
in the direction of the château, they straggled along in the rear. Like
hungry vultures, they seemed to scent a battle from which they might
derive some profit.
The household at Chamondrin chanced to be astir late that evening. The
Marquis, Philip, Antoinette, the curé of Remoulins and two or three
landed proprietors living in the vicinity were in the drawing-room.
After such a day of excitement, no one could think of sleep. They were
discussing the events that had occurred at Nîmes, and deploring the
death of the victims. They were anxiously asking if the blood that had
been shed would be the last, and were endeavoring to find means to
prevent the repetition of such a calamity. When the clock struck the
hour of midnight, the curé of Remoulins, an energetic old man named
Peretty, rose to return to the village. The other visitors, whose homes
lay in the same direction and whose carriages were waiting in the
court-yard, followed his example. Suddenly a frightened cry broke the
silence of the night. Followed by the others present, Philip rushed to
the door. The cry had come from the man who guarded the gate.
"We are attacked!" exclaimed this man on seeing Philip.
At a glance the latter understood the extent and the imminence of their
danger. The bright moonlight revealed a terrible sight. The besiegers
had found only one opening through which they could effect an entrance
into the château; but even there a heavy gate composed of strong iron
bars opposed their passage. This gate was very high, and the bars were
securely fastened to each other, while the top was surmounted by sharp
pickets. Still, the bandits were not discouraged. Half-crazed with fury
and with wine, they climbed this formidable barrier with the hope of
leaping over it. It seemed to bend beneath their weight. The massive
bolts trembled, the ponderous hinges creaked, as fifty or more
repulsive-looking wretches, the majority of them clad in rags, hurled
themselves against the gate, uttering shrieks of baffled rage. One would
have supposed them wild beasts trying to break from their cage.
"To arms!" cried Philip.
He ran to the lower hall, which was used as an armory. His father, the
visitors and the servants, who were all devoted to the Chamondrin
family, followed him, while Antoinette stood watching in alarm this
formidable horde of invaders.
The Abbé Peretty advanced towards the intruders.
"What do you desire, my friends?" he asked, calmly.
"Open the gates!" responded the less excited among the crowd.
"We want Chamondrin's head!" exclaimed others.
"Have you any just cause of complaint against the Marquis?" persisted
the abbé, striving to calm the furious throng.
"Death to the aristocrats!" the crowd responded with one voice.
One man went so far as to point his gun at the venerable priest, who,
without once losing his sang-froid, recrossed the court-yard, keeping
his face turned towards the excited band outside, and rejoined his
companions, who under the leadership of the Marquis and Philip were just
emerging from the hall, armed to the teeth.
"They will not listen to reason," said the Abbé Peretty, calmly!
"Then we will defend ourselves, and woe be unto them!"
As he uttered these words, the Marquis turned to Mademoiselle de
Mirandol, around whom the women of the château were crowding,
half-crazed with terror.
"Go into the house; your place is not here," said he.
"My place is by your side!" replied Antoinette.
"No, my dear Antoinette; it is madness to expose yourself unnecessarily.
I know you are courageous, but you can be of far greater service to us
by quieting these poor, shrieking creatures."
While this conversation was going on, Philip advanced to the gate. It
still resisted the efforts of the assailants, some of whom were
endeavoring to climb over the roofs of the pavilions that stood on
either side of the entrance to the château.
"I command you to retire!" cried Philip.
Angry threats of "Death" resounded afresh.
"Then I hold you responsible for any disasters that may occur!" Philip
replied.
At the same moment the impetuous youth raised his gun and fired,
wounding one of the men who had climbed the gate and was preparing to
leap down into the court-yard. Imprecations broke forth anew and the
combat began. Nothing could be heard but a vigorous fusillade,
accompanied by the shouts of the besiegers and the besieged. These last
were so few in number that they dare not dispatch one of their little
company to Remoulins for aid. Besides, they were not sure that the band
now assailing them would not be followed by others that would waylay
their messenger; but they hoped that their shouts and the sound of the
firing would arouse the inhabitants of the sleeping town. The Marquis
fought with the desperation of a man who is defending his outraged
fireside, and Philip struggled with the energy of despair. He was
fighting for his father and for Antoinette. He shuddered when he thought
of the horrible fate that awaited the young girl if these brutes, more
formidable than any wild beasts, were victorious. Even the Abbé Peretty
had armed himself. The servants and the friends of the house conducted
themselves like heroes, but, unfortunately, Coursegol was far from
Chamondrin, and the defenders of the château sadly missed his valiant
arm.
The assailants were still crowding against the gate, uttering howls of
fury. They were poorly armed. Only a few had guns, the others brandished
hatchets and pickaxes, crying:
"Tear down the gate!"
But, when the firing began, they left this dangerous position and
retired perhaps twenty feet, where they hid behind the trees, firing at
random, sometimes trying to advance, but always driven back with loss.
Five or six of them were already stretched upon the grass, but the
defenders of the castle were unhurt. The gypsies had retreated to a
safe distance, where they stood impatiently awaiting the conclusion of
the struggle, ready to fall upon the vanquished as soon as they became
unable to defend themselves.
Meanwhile Antoinette, surrounded by four or five women, was upon her
knees in the drawing-room, praying fervently, her heart sick with
anguish and fear. How ardently she wished herself a man that she might
fight by Philip's side! The firing suddenly ceased. Philip entered the
room. His face was pale, but stained here and there by smoke and powder;
his head was bare; his clothing disordered. Grief and despair were
imprinted upon his countenance.
"We must fly!" he exclaimed.
And taking Antoinette by the hand he led her through the long corridor
opening into the park. The frightened women followed them. In the park
they met the defenders of the château, carrying a wounded man in their
arms.
Antoinette uttered a cry of consternation.
"Ah! I would have fought until death!" exclaimed Philip, despairingly,
"but we were overpowered; the gate was torn down; my father was wounded.
He must be saved from the hands of the bandits at any cost, so we were
forced to retreat."
Antoinette walked on like one in a frightful dream. If Philip had not
supported her she would have fallen again and again. They walked beside
the Marquis, who was still conscious, though mortally wounded in the
breast. When he saw his son and Antoinette beside him, he looked at them
with sorrowful tenderness, and even attempted to smile as if to
convince them that he was not suffering.
The little band proceeded with all possible speed to a small
summer-house concealed in the pines and shrubbery. Nothing could be more
mournful than this little procession of gloomy-visaged men and weeping
women, fleeing through the darkness to escape the assassins who were now
masters of the castle, destroying everything around them and making
night hideous with their ferocious yells. At last they reached the
summer-house. The Marquis was deposited upon a hastily improvised bed;
the Abbé Peretty, assisted by Philip and Antoinette, attempted to dress
his wound; and two men started in the hope of reaching Remoulins by a
circuitous route, in order to bring a physician and call upon the
inhabitants of the village for aid.
An hour went by; it seemed a century. In the gloomy room where these
unfortunates had taken refuge no sound broke the stillness save the
moans of the Marquis and the voice of the Abbé Peretty, as he uttered
occasional words of consolation and encouragement to assuage the mute
anguish of Philip and the despair of the weeping Antoinette. Then all
was still again.
Philip's agony was terrible. His father dying; his home in the hands of
vandals, who were ruthlessly destroying the loved and cherished objects
that had surrounded him from infancy, Antoinette, crushed by the
disasters of this most wretched night, this was the terrible picture
that rose before him. To this torture was added the despair caused by a
sense of his utter powerlessness. Gladly would he have rushed back to
the château to die there, struggling with his enemies, but he was
prevented by the thought of Antoinette, who was now dependent upon him
for protection. He was engrossed in these gloomy thoughts when a strange
crackling sound attracted his attention, and at the same moment a man,
who had ventured out into the park to watch the proceedings of the enemy
rushed back, exclaiming:
"They are burning the château!"
The tidings of this new misfortune overpowered Philip and almost bereft
him of reason. He ran to the door. A tall column of flame and smoke was
mounting to the sky; the trees were tinged with a crimson light, and the
crackling of the fire could be distinctly heard above the hooting and
yelling of the infuriated crowd. His eyes filled with tears, but he was
dashing them away preparatory to returning to his father when the Abbé
Peretty joined him.
"Courage, my poor boy!" said the good priest.
"I will be brave, sir. I can cheerfully submit to the loss of our
possessions, but to the death of my father, I----"
He could not complete the sentence. The abbé, who had lost all hope, was
silent for a moment; then he said:
"There is something I must no longer conceal from you. After the château
is destroyed, I fear these wretches will search the park in order to
discover our retreat. I do not fear for myself. I shall remain with the
Marquis. They will respect a dying man and a white-haired priest; but
you, Philip, must remain here no longer. Make your escape with
Mademoiselle de Mirandol without delay."
"I cannot abandon my father," replied Philip. "If our hiding-place is
discovered, we will defend ourselves--we will fight until death!"
The priest said no more, and they both returned to the bedside of the
Marquis. On seeing them, the latter, addressing his son, inquired:
"The château is on fire, is it not?"
Philip's reply seemed to cause the Marquis intense anguish; but, after a
moment, he motioned to his son to come nearer; then he said.
"Listen, Philip. You must leave France. This unhappy country is about to
enter upon a series of misfortunes which neither you nor I can foresee,
and of which you will certainly be a victim if you remain here. You must
depart, Philip. Think, my son, you will be the sole heir of the house of
Chamondrin."
"You will recover, father."
"No; death is close at hand. It is so near that I cannot deceive myself;
so, Philip, I wish you to grant one of my dearest wishes. I wish, before
I die, to feel assured that the family of Chamondrin will be
perpetuated. Consent to marry Antoinette."
Philip, as we have said before, had already tacitly consented to this
marriage. Since he had lost all hope of winning Dolores, the thought of
wedding another was no longer revolting to him.
"I am ready to obey you, father," he replied, "but will you allow me to
remind you that Mademoiselle de Mirandol is rich and that I have
nothing."
The Marquis checked him and, calling Antoinette, said in a voice that
was becoming weaker and weaker:
"Antoinette, Philip is poor; his position is gone; the favor of the king
will avail him nothing in the future, and the power has passed into the
hands of our enemies; nevertheless, will you consent to marry him?"
"If he desires it," exclaimed Mademoiselle de Mirandol, "and never was I
so grateful for my wealth!"
Philip pressed the hand of the noble girl, and the face of the Marquis
was transfigured with joy in spite of his agony. Then M. de Chamondrin
resumed:
"You must leave the country, my children, and marry as soon as
circumstances will permit. You must stay in foreign lands until France
recovers her reason. Promise to obey me."
They promised in voices choked with sobs.
"Abbé," continued the Marquis, "bless these children!"
Without exchanging another word, Philip and Antoinette, in obedience to
the wishes of the dying man, knelt before the priest. The latter,
employing the solemn formula which makes bride and bridegroom
indissolubly one, asked Mademoiselle de Mirandol if she would accept
Philip as her husband, and Philip if he would take Antoinette for his
wife, and when they had answered in the affirmative, he added:
"I cannot here, and under such circumstances, unite you by the bonds of
marriage; but until the vows you have just exchanged can be consecrated
by the church, I, as the witness of this covenant, shall pray God to
bless you."
"I am satisfied," said the Marquis, faintly. "Father, grant me
absolution."
Antoinette and Philip remained upon their knees. A quarter of an hour
later the Marquis expired. Just as he breathed his last, the same man
who discovered the firing of the château, and who had again returned to
the park to watch the movements of the enemy, burst into the room.
"They are searching the park! They are coming this way!" he cried,
breathlessly.
The curé, who had been engaged in prayer, rose.
"Fly!" he exclaimed.
"My place is here!" replied Philip.
Antoinette gave him a look of approval.
"In the name of the Father, who has commanded you to love, I order you
to fly!"
And, as he spoke, the priest pointed to the door.
"But who will give him burial?" exclaimed Philip.
"I will; go!" replied the abbé.
Antoinette and Philip were compelled to obey.
The priest was left alone with the lifeless body of M. de Chamondrin. He
knelt, and, as calmly as if he were in his own presbytery, recited the
prayers the church addresses to Heaven for the souls of the dead. The
flickering light of a nearly consumed candle dimly illumined the room.
The world without was bathed in a flood of clear moonlight. The
marauders ran about the park, shouting at the top of their voices,
uprooting plants and shrubbery, breaking the statuary and the marble
vases, and expending upon inanimate objects the fury they were unable to
vent upon the living.
Suddenly, one of them discovered the summer-house. The door was open; he
entered. Some of his comrades followed him. A priest with white, flowing
locks rose at their entrance, and, pointing to the couch upon which the
dead body of the Marquis was reposing, said:
"Death has passed this way! Retire--"
He was not allowed to complete his sentence. A violent blow from an axe
felled him to the ground, his skull, fractured. They trampled his body
under foot, then one of the assassins applied a burning torch to the
floor. The flames rose, licking each portion of the building with their
fiery tongues. Then the shameless crowd departed to continue their work
of destruction. The sacking of the château occupied three hours. The
pillagers had not retired when the approach of the National Guard of
Remoulins, coming too late to the assistance of the Marquis, was
discovered by one of the ruffians, and they fled in every direction to
escape the punishment they merited.
When Coursegol, wild with anxiety, reached the château on the day that
followed this frightful scene, only the walls remained standing. Of the
imposing edifice in which he was born there was left only bare and
crumbling walls. The farm-house and the summer-house had shared the same
fate; and in the park, thickly strewn with prostrate trees and debris, a
crowd of gypsies and beggars were searching for valuables spared by the
fire. Coursegol could not repress a cry of rage and despair at the
sight; but how greatly his sorrow was augmented when he learned that two
dead bodies, those of the Marquis and of the Abbé Peretty had been
discovered half-consumed in the still smoking ruins.
Were Philip and Antoinette also dead? No one knew.
One person declared that he saw them making their escape. This
uncertainty was more horrible to Coursegol than the poignant reality
before his eyes. He flung himself down upon the seared turf, and there,
gloomy, motionless, a prey to the most frightful despair, he wept
bitterly.