The Cross and the Crown
Deborah Alcock
Table of Contents
Chapter 1.
The Narrative of Gabriel Vaur
Southwark, 2nd January 1697.
I GABRIEL VAUR (or De Vaur), begin to write the story of my early life on this second night of the new year. The work of the day is over, and there is no one to interrupt me. Desire sits near me by the fire, winding silk. She is happier, poor child, when her hands are occupied, and when she thinks she is helping me, as in truth she is. But she never speaks, unless I first speak to her. I have many good and kind friends who are dear to me, yet there is no one to whom I care exactly to tell my thoughts, or with whom I can talk freely over the past. Nor is there any one likely to keep in remembrance, or to tell after me, the story of my boyhood. That is why I wish to write it down, while it is still fresh in my memory. Moreover, time brings strange changes, and the ways of God are wonderful. Who can tell whether — sometime, somehow — these sheets may not find their way into the hands of Louis — my dear, unforgotten brother Louis — or into those of his children or his children’s children! If this should happen — if kindred eyes should rest one day upon these lines — remember, dear ones, that Gabriel has no thought of grudging you the inheritance of his fathers; nay, that he would not take it back again, if indeed he could; God has given him instead some better thing. What that thing is I pray Him, of His grace, to show you also.
I was born at my father’s chateau of Vaur, near Caudebec, in Normandy. We were an old and noble family; it is not perhaps without some pride that I, a poor glove-maker, sit in my garret in Southwark, and write down that my father was a gentleman of France. But the rather do I glory that my father was a steadfast confessor of Christ, for whom he has suffered the loss of all things, and has endured (it may be is enduring still) toil and shame and bitter bondage. I have dropped from my name the significant de, as unsuited to my present lot, and unnecessarily distinguishing me amongst the brave and worthy fellow-exiles who share my daily toil. My claim to honor is not the accident of noble birth, it is one they share with me — that to us it was given, not only to believe in Christ, but also to suffer for His name.
Desirée and I were twins, the eldest of the family. Then came Marie, Madeleine, and little Louis, with whose babyhood my first memories of sorrow are associated. Desirée and I were visiting the nearest neighbor we had of our own rank and our own faith, Madame La Marquise de Vigny, whose only daughter was the dear friend and playfellow of our childhood. We had been invited to celebrate Aimee’s birthday; and I well remember how, on the morning after the fete, Madame de Vigny told us, tenderly and with many caresses, that we were to remain with her for the present, as our little sister Madeleine had the small-pox. That the terrible disease should have reached our sheltered home was scarcely to be wondered at. Many poor people, not our own tenants only, but strangers, were constantly coming to the chateau for help of various kinds. Food and clothing were freely given; moreover, my mother and her maidens were skilled in the concoction of simple remedies for all ordinary diseases, in distilling herbs, and preparing salves and ointments. The gates of Vaur were never closed against the needy or the miserable; nor was there a cottage in the neighborhood, however poor, that my mother had not frequently visited on her errands of kindness and mercy.
Our humbler neighbors in the country, unlike the citizens of Caudebec, did not, for the most part, share our faith; but we shared their cares and troubles in neighbourly sympathy, and it became our lot also to share their sufferings. When, after a long time, Desiree and I were at last allowed to return home, only our dear frail mother, with our baby brother Louis, welcomed us there; and when we asked for Marie and Madeleine, we were shown two small graves in the little burying-ground that adjoined our temple: Our father, happily, had escaped the infection, having been absent in Paris, I believe on business connected with our Faith; but our mother had been attacked by the terrible malady, and, though she recovered, she never regained her former health and strength.
Notwithstanding this sorrow, our childhood was a very happy one, as a day may be very bright though a heavy shower has fallen in the morning. My dear old home, how often in dreams I am there again! I see it always in the sunshine. — Fog and rain, dimness and dinginess of all kinds seem to belong to the land of our exile, and especially to this great, rich, serious London, which is generous and hospitable, but certainly not bright and glad, like la belle France. — I see the great horse-chestnut trees, with their fan-like leaves and their fragrant pyramids of flower; the forests of oak with their dense green foliage; the far-reaching orchards, beautiful alike whether sprinkled with the snow of their myriad blossoms or laden with the richer glories of their blushing fruit. I see in the distance the glittering Seine, and the picturesque old town of Caudebec, with the gray steeple of its venerable church. I see the long, straight avenue, bordered with poplars, which led from the high road to our gray château, with its turrets and loopholes and quaint embrasures, for it had been a place of strength in the stormy days gone by.
Often, too, the door stands open, and I pass in, unbidden and unchallenged, a ghostly visitor whose footsteps make no sound. In the wide hall my father stands, tall and stately, his dark hair touched with gray (though I know now that he was not old); beside him my gentle mother, with her sweet, pale face, little Louis holding her hand. Desiree is there too, but Desiree is never still for a moment― bright, eager, impulsive child, all fire and life, the foremost in enterprise of every kind, whether work or play. Everyone said she ought to have been the boy, and I the girl; for my health was feeble and my disposition quiet; I would sit all day with a book by my mother’s side rather than seek outdoor sports and pleasures. But Desiree — it seems but yesterday that she was racing along beneath our chestnuts with hair blown back and cheek dyed crimson, keeping pace with our great dog Bertrand and sharing his gambols. Or, mounted on her little white pony, she would flash like a sunbeam across the green level pastures or along the smooth path by the riverside. Yet, for all that, she was the true child of our sweet, low-voiced mother, who could always, by a word or look, bring back that high, eager spirit to the gentlest moods and uses. Whenever it was possible to chain her bright, restless eyes to the printed page, to the tapestry frame or the lace pillow, the reading and the work were better than was done by those who read and worked all the time and cared for nothing else. How we loved each other, Desiree and I! None the less, perhaps the more, because the usual relations of brother and sister were reversed; because she treated me with protecting tenderness, while I looked up to her with infinite admiration, following her leading, and loyally obeying her behests. My father, with some occasional help from our pastor, M. Allard, taught us both, and taught us the same things, first and chiefly the Holy Scriptures, then History, Grammar, Arithmetic, Latin, and the other branches of a liberal education.
Thus our days glided by in happy work and happy sport. It is true we were dimly conscious of gathering storms outside the charmed circle of our peaceful, sheltered childhood. Earnest prayers were offered, both in our little temple and at family worship, that God would turn towards us the heart of our king, and avert from His Church the fiery trial of threatened persecution. One day we learned with dismay that the temple itself, in which for generations our fathers had worshipped, was to be laid level with the ground. I believe it was falsely alleged by the authorities that the child of a Catholic had been baptized there, and upon this pretext it was doomed to destruction. Desiree and I stood hand in hand, and watched the cruel work with tearful eyes; but when we went home and told our father, he only said, ‘Well, my children, we must hold our worship henceforward beneath our own roof. God grant that ere long we may not be forbidden to do even that!’
Presently M. Allard disappeared from the neighborhood, suddenly and silently. We children were not told why he went, or whither; but Desiree, who was always so clever, found out in some way that he had been accused of speaking against the Catholic faith, and obliged to flee for his life. He had no successor; our father henceforth conducted our simple services himself. Then came a time when every week brought us the report of some new violence or wrong. Now it was a child carried off by force from its weeping parents, to be educated ‘in the religion of the king’; again, it was a popular riot, stimulated by authority, and resulting in loss of life and destruction of valuable property. Or we would hear that a pastor, on some frivolous accusation, had been doomed to the gibbet; or that an assembly had been broken up with violence, men sent to the galleys, and women and children consigned to dreary, hopeless imprisonment in convents. Eventually, rumors began to reach us of the horrible Dragonnades. But the stories of cruelty, insult, and torture were whispered with bated breath, and I think that as far as possible they were purposely kept from our young ears. Still, we knew that many of our brethren were suffering for the faith, and that many more were forsaking their hearths and homes, and all they possessed on earth, to seek in foreign lands freedom to worship God. We did not know, however, what I afterwards came to understand, that for our sakes my father would gladly have joined the host of exiles, but my mother’s state of health forbade the attempt. She could not have gone with us, while to leave her behind was not to be thought of for a moment. So our days wore on. And yet somehow we children never thought that the terrors and sufferings we heard of could really touch us, or those we loved best on earth.
But at length a sorrow that we feared and felt most keenly drew near our guarded home, blotting out for the time all remoter cares and interests. Our dear mother faded visibly, day by day, until it became evident, even to Desiree and to me, that she was passing from us to a brighter home. How lovingly we watched beside her and ministered to her weakness I need not tell. Desiree’s ready helpfulness, her courage, her presence of mind, were called forth in full measure by this trouble. Hitherto she had been her father’s special companion and delight, while I — the delicate, rather petted boy — had the claim of weakness on my mother’s tender care. But now Desiree’s efficiency in the sickroom drew her very close to my mother, while my father and I were thrown into each other’s society, a circumstance for which ever since I have been very thankful. Though he did not say much to me directly of the perils and sufferings we might have to endure, he omitted no opportunity of strengthening my faith by his wise and loving counsels. I could not fail to notice, in those days, his pale face, his rapidly bleaching hair, and the repressed, silent anguish often visible in his look and manner. But I attributed all to the great sorrow which I knew was hovering over us.
At last came the sad day, never to be forgotten, when we stood beside our mother’s bed, watching for the last look and the last sigh. I see it all as though it were yesterday. But why describe it here? Most of us know how farewell is said, with breaking hearts, to those we love the best. It is what followed that was strange. Desiree led the sobbing Louis from the room, and two old and valued domestics, who shared our watch, had also withdrawn. Only my father stood yet beside his dead; and I, unseen by him, speechless and motionless with sorrow, leant against one of the posts of the great canopied bedstead. Raising my eyes from the dead face to the living, I saw a change that filled me with wonder. There passed away from my father’s face the strained and suffering look I knew so well; the hard lines grew soft again, the set muscles relaxed; it seemed as if the white face on the pillow had transferred its own unutterable peace to that of the mourner bending over it. Presently he knelt down and prayed. ‘Father in heaven,’ he said aloud — ‘my Father, I thank Thee. With all my heart I thank Thee! “Because Thou hast heard my prayer and my supplication, therefore will I call upon Thee as long as I live.” Never, never more from this day forth can I doubt Thy love and faithfulness. She is safe! Thou hast come for her Thyself; Thou hast stretched forth Thy hand and delivered her. No harm can touch her now. And now all the rest, compared with what might have been, is light to bear. Father in heaven, I thank Thee.’ He said no more, and, awed and wondering, I stole in silence from the room. I scarce knew which was the more overwhelming, the sense that my beloved mother was gone from us forever, or the thought that my father, instead of mourning, gave God thanks for taking her.
We were soon told, to our sorrowful amazement, that our mother was to be laid in the grave that very night; and, what we thought yet more strange and unaccountable, not in the sacred spot beside our ruined temple where her children slept, but in a secluded corner of our own garden, beneath a venerable yew tree. Had we dared, we would have remonstrated; but our father’s arrangements admitted neither of question nor comment. His orders, briefly and almost sternly given, were obeyed in sorrowful silence. The ceremony, at which none but our own servants assisted, took place by torchlight. As soon as it was over, my father called me into his cabinet. ‘Sit down, my son,’ he said; ‘I have something of the utmost importance to say to you.’
In what follows, as in other conversations I may have to record, I cannot pretend, at this distance of time, to reproduce with certainty the exact words that were spoken. Yet I am sure that memory, quickened by love and sorrow, has faithfully retained the substance, and in many cases the very tones and gestures have impressed themselves indelibly on my mind.
He continued, ‘This morning, while I stood by your mother’s bed, a letter from a faithful friend was placed in my hands, warning me that a party of soldiers had been billeted upon us, and that they will probably be here tomorrow.’
‘Soldiers?’ I echoed in terror — ‘Dragoons? Oh, father, what shall we do? ‘That is what we have now to consider. One of us is safe — thank God I Now it is Desiree for whom I fear the most. But I have formed a plan for her concealment, and for that of Lou is’.’
‘Louis!’ I exclaimed. ‘Surely he is not in danger. He is almost a baby.’
‘Nevertheless,’ said my father, he may soon be the most important person in our house. Should you and I remain steadfast (which may God give us grace to do) and Louis be prevailed upon to apostatize, our whole patrimony would then be come his, to be administered by his Catholic and clerical guardians.’
‘And what can they do,’ I inquired, ‘to Desiree and to me?’
‘As you are still under fourteen, you may be sent to a monastery for education in the Catholic faith. While as for Desiree’— But here his voice faltered and died away, and a shudder such as I had never seen before shook his strong frame.
‘And you, father?’ I continued presently; ‘what can they do to you?’
Strange to say, this question seemed to restore his composure; he raised his head, crossed his arms on his breast, and said, calmly enough, ‘What they please.’
This silenced me; and after a pause he resumed, ‘But we must not think only of ourselves. The same informant tells me that dragoons are to be quartered also upon our friends at Vigny. This is too horrible to think of. A household of defenseless ladies exposed to the unchecked brutality of those ruffians! Not if we can save them. I have no one else I can trust to send to them. But — you know that short path through the forest you have sometimes taken, when you wished to visit your friend Aimee? Could you find it, think you, in the night-time?’
I said eagerly that I was sure I could.
‘Then go to them at once,’ he said. ‘Do not delay an hour. Say that the soldiers are coming, and that I counsel them — nay, that I implore of them — as they value their lives, and what is more precious yet than life, to order their coach at daybreak, and to set out for the residence of Madame de Vigny’s brother near Caen. M. de Belmont is a Catholic, but he will not refuse the shelter of his roof to his sister and his niece, nor yet to the aged relative — his aunt, I believe — who resides with them.’
‘I will go at once, father,’ I said — for, boy as I was, the thought of harm or insult touching Aimee de Vigny made the blood tingle in my veins. Yet I lingered a moment to ask him, with trembling lips, ‘Father, why have you made — the grave — out yonder in the garden, instead of beside the others? Desiree is troubled; she says the little ones will be lonely in the Resurrection.’
The look with which my father answered made me bitterly repent the question, and haunted me for years. ‘I thought you knew better than to ask me,’ he said. ‘It was to avoid — the risk of profanation.’ Presently he added, as if to himself, “‘But after that — no more that they can do.’”
I turned to go, but he called me back.
‘In these times,’ he said, ‘we can never know that parting for one hour may not mean parting forever upon earth. Should you, when you return, which you can scarcely do before tomorrow evening, find the soldiers already here, do not try to re-enter the house. Go to Caudebec, to the house of Marie Champfort. I have already given her certain directions, and a sum of money for the use of any of my family who may go to her, either for temporary concealment or to be helped on their way to England. But, Gabriel, whatever your fate may be, do not abandon your brother and sister, as long as any chance remains to you of helping them. And now, my son, God bless and keep thee. May He bring us all together again one day in His presence!’ He strained me to his heart a moment, kissed me lip to lip, then pointed silently to the door. With tearful eyes I turned away, and I saw his face no more on earth.
Chapter 2.
The Narrative of Gabriel, Vaur Continued
‘I praised the dead which are already dead, more than the living which are yet alive.’
PERHAPS, before I proceed further, I ought to explain certain matters to which I have alluded. Men do not understand by instinct what has been done in another country; and indeed I think that since the beginning of the world there have been few things so horrible and monstrous as the cruel, protracted, and most ingenious persecution, known popularly as the Revocation of the Edict of Nantes, although, in fact, that signal act of royal perfidy was but the crown and completion of the long course of oppression that preceded it. The Edict was not formally revoked until every one of its provisions had been shamelessly violated, and until the advisers of King Louis could assert — what was of course a flagrant falsehood, but what they had certainly tried by every means, fair and foul, to make a fact — that there were no longer any Protestants in France.
Yet it must not be thought, as I believe many of our English friends do think, that we were driven from France simply as the Moors and Jews were driven from Spain — that the choice was given us of apostasy or exile. On the contrary, every possible effort was made to detain us; flight or other evasion of the royal edict was visited with the severest punishment — the galleys for men, perpetual imprisonment for women, and compulsory education in convents for children of both sexes. To use the noble and striking words of one of our confessors, uttered to his judges on his trial: ‘If, in proposing to me to change my religion, some alternative that it was possible to execute was also proposed — as, to leave the kingdom with, or even without, my property — the king should be willingly obeyed; for the mind, finding choice and issue, cannot be said to act upon compulsion. But to propose a change of faith without adding thereto the consent of the understanding, and to shut out at the same time every issue, in order to force a man to will what he wills not, is to attempt a thing impossible.’
It was the avowed object of the king thus ‘to shut out every issue,’ to leave us no choice, not even, if it were possible, the last sad but glorious choice of the martyr, between apostasy and death.
It is true that many thousands lost their lives, but this was not the aim, though it was certainly the direct result, of the royal measures. The soldiers quartered upon us to compel submission to the will of the king had leave to commit every excess, to inflict every torture, short of death. Manhood in its prime, hoary age, helpless childhood, tender and modest womanhood, were abandoned to the license of these ‘booted missionaries,’ sprung from the dregs of society, and hardened by lives of military peril and profligacy. They were encouraged and stimulated to every caprice of reckless and ingenious cruelty by which conversions could be forced. It would be easy to fill my pages with the sickening and appalling details that crowd upon the memory as I write. But to what end? The cruelty of the persecutors is not good to remember; the faith and the patience of the martyrs runs no risk of being forgotten. Its record is elsewhere; and I think it will outlast even the glories, of which we hear so much, of the victorious reign of Louis the Magnificent.
Although soldiers of all arms were let loose upon us, the dragoons distinguished themselves by their zeal and ferocity, so far as to enjoy the sinister honor of giving a name to this new kind of persecution, hence called the Dragonnades. While we were put outside the protection of the law, and exposed to every outrage the spirit of lawlessness could inspire, all the resources of the law were arrayed against us. We were forbidden to worship God according to our consciences, even in the privacy of our own houses or amidst the ruins of our deserted temples; forbidden to teach our children our own faith; forbidden to practice almost every profession, business, or occupation; forbidden to employ servants of our religion, or ourselves to serve Catholic employers; forbidden to bury our dead save at daybreak or after nightfall. I mistake — that was before the formal Edict of Revocation; afterwards, our dead, who died in the faith, were exposed to profanations too horrible to describe. No wonder my father thanked God for my mother’s peaceful death and quiet grave beneath the flowers that in happier days she loved to tend!
I suppose that in all persecutions the sufferings inflicted through the affections have been the saddest as well as perhaps the largest part of the misery entailed. But I think never before was there a persecution so ingeniously contrived to wrench and to agonize all the tenderest fibers of our nature. Parents were tortured in their children, children in their parents, wives and husbands in each other. A main feature of the royal plan for our conversion was the tearing asunder of families, and especially the removal of children from their parents, to be educated (if possible at the parents’ expense) in the Catholic faith. From every part of my country, throughout her length and breadth, there arose the cry of broken-hearted Rachels, who were weeping for their children, and refusing to be comforted, not because they ‘were not’ — many a mother would have thanked God for those tidings — but because they were alone amongst strangers and enemies, being made either martyrs or apostates, according to their age, their courage, or their faithfulness.
But to resume my own simple story. It was late in the autumn of 1685, about a month after the Edict of Revocation had been signed, that we laid our dead in her lonely resting-place, and that I set out, the same night, by the forest path to the Chateau de Vigny. The moon was bright, and I was well acquainted with the forest track. It was too rough for riding, but I had often walked it, usually returning by the road on a pony the next day. The distance was somewhere about three leagues. This was a memorable walk for me. I was then not quite fourteen, but I think I left my boyhood behind me in the wood that night. As the dry brown leaves, crisp with hoarfrost, rustled beneath my feet, as the bare and spreading boughs stretched their gaunt arms above me, as the moonbeams flickering through them gleamed fitfully upon my path, I told myself, over and over, still scarcely realizing what my eyes had seen and my ears had heard that day, ‘My mother is dead, and my father gives God thanks for it.’
At first I was dazed and stupefied; my heart felt numb within me. But after a time the simple, natural part of my sorrow came back to me — swept over me like a tide. The dark trees, the moonlight vanished from my view. I stood again in the chamber of death; I saw again that dear pale face; I heard again that sweet voice, low and trembling, which I should hear no more — no more until the morning of the Resurrection. I was overpowered; and, forgetting everything else, I threw myself on the frosty ground, and wept and sobbed aloud.
I knew not how long I lay there. By and by the thought shot through me that since my father thanked God for my mother, it must be better with the dead than with the living. Knowing the Scriptures as I did, it was no wonder that the pathetic words should occur to me, Son of man, behold, I take from thee the desire of thine eyes with a stroke; yet neither shalt thou mourn nor weep, neither shall thy tears run down. Forbear to cry, ‘make no mourning for the dead.’ — Ay, ‘make no mourning for the dead.’ What right had I to lie there weeping selfish tears, whilst horrors — dimly guessed, indeed, but awful in their vagueness, and oh, how terribly near! — threatened all I loved? Had I not my father’s command to obey? Had I not the De Vignys — Aimée de Vigny — to save from the cruel license of the soldiers?
I started to my feet, and, eager to make up for lost time, sped on my way like an arrow from the bow. Though not strong, I had always been a fleet runner, and now the exercise did me good.
By and by, slackening my pace a little, I tried to think more clearly what was happening to us, and what we ought to do. Nothing, I knew, would make my father give up his faith; I had also a high opinion of the courage and strength of Desiree. But, if tried, should I be found faithful? I asked this question in all seriousness of my own heart. I pictured the trials to which I might be exposed, but very vaguely and inadequately, for as yet I knew scarce anything of the dread mystery of pain. Whenever hitherto I had suffered pain, my mother had soothed and comforted me; whilst now — the one thought clear and vivid to me amongst all my bewildering apprehensions was the thought that she was gone. The whole fabric of home and of home life was shattered forever. I did not say this to myself in set words, but I felt very keenly that henceforth I must stand alone. Yet not alone. Would not my Father in heaven be with me still? No enemy could separate me from Him. Amongst foes and strangers, amidst the cruel soldiers of whom I had heard so much, in a dungeon or a monastery or on the deck of a galley, still He would be there. I looked up to the star-lit sky (the moon was setting-now), and I felt, as I had never felt before, that God was with me indeed; that He would be with me all my life long; — my God and my Father in Christ Jesus.
In due time I reached the Chateau de Vigny. It was still quite dark, though it must have been near the morning. All was silent within, but I knew what to do. I threw up some gravel against the window of the room where the butler slept, a faithful old retainer much valued by the family, and very kind to me during my frequent visits. He was of the Religion,’ as were most of the other servants of the De Vignys and all our own. If the king’s edict was to be executed, these must be all dismissed, or more probably they would share the fate of their lords, ‘such as were to death, unto death; such as were to captivity, unto captivity.’
Old Bontemps soon appeared, and saw who was there with evident surprise and alarm. Going down to a small side entrance, he admitted me, and I noticed the trembling of his hand as he moved the bolt, and the dull gray look in his aged face. It deepened visibly, as in a few brief sentences I told my story. These are bad times, M. Gabriel,’ he said.
‘You know, Bontemps,’ I continued, ‘we must get the ladies away before the soldiers come, and come they may any time tomorrow. — No, today, for it must be morning now. Ought you not to have them awakened at once, and to rouse Etienne also, to see about the horses?’
‘Certainly. Monsieur is right. And so Madame de Vaur is with the good God. Well for her, no doubt — well for her! Yes, as monsieur suggests, I will go to the ladies. Will monsieur wait here?’ He led me into a little room where there was a couch, upon which I sat down; and when he was gone, beginning to feel tired, I stretched myself at full length upon it. I had spent two nights without sleep, had wept a great deal, had walked for hours through the forest. It was no wonder that, at fourteen, nature was too strong for me, and I sank into a profound and dreamless sleep. When I awoke, I could not remember where I was, or what had happened to me. I was still trying to find out when Bontemps came to me. ‘Well, monsieur,’ he said, ‘they are safe so far, thanks to the good God.’
I began to remember now. ‘Are they gone?’ I asked, starting up.
‘Gone? A good four hours ago. They are well on the road to Caen by this time. Madame, the poor old lady, mademoiselle, and Louise are all in the coach, with Etienne to drive, and Jacques and Chariot on horseback to take care of them.’
‘And I never saw them — never said good-bye,’ said I plaintively, and I think my tears were not far away.
‘Chut, chut, M. Gabriel,’ said the old man, with an air of reproof. ‘Are these the times, think you, for a man to sit and weep because he has not said Bon jour, or Bon soir to his friends? Rather let him thank the good God if he has cause to think his friends are alive and well; though he may never hope to salute them again in this world.’
This made me think of my father and my home, and I sprang to my feet. ‘I must go home at once,’ I said.
‘I will have Jeannot saddled for you, M. Gabriel,’ said Bontemps. ‘You may keep him if you like, for I mean to shut up everything here, and to send the people who are left about their business. There is no sign as yet of the soldiers; so I hope when they come they will find an empty house.’
‘And yourself, Bontemps?’ I asked.
‘There is the forester’s but,’ he replied; ‘I shall still be at hand to watch over the old place.’ I thought his days of watching would not be many; he looked ten years older, even since the morning.
He brought me food and wine, of which by this time I was very glad; and I was soon on my way home, mounted on the pony I usually rode during my visits to Vigny. The day was already far advanced; a dull, cheerless autumn afternoon, with a chill, drizzling mist beginning to fall. I had, of course, to return by the high road; a much longer way than that by which I had come.
As I approached the gate of our own domain, Guillot, the wood-boy, who was evidently on the watch, ran up to me. ‘Oh, M. Gabriel,’ he said, catching my bridle, and speaking in a kind of breathless whisper, ‘you are not to come here! No, not a step farther — for your life. Monsieur your father bade me tell you. He bade me charge you, by your duty and your love to him — those were his words, M. Gabriel not to set a foot within these gates; but, instead, to go at once to the person of whom he told you.’
‘But tell me, Guillot,’ I cried, in an agony, ‘tell me of my father, my sister, and all of them.’
‘Indeed, M. Gabriel, I don’t know what to tell you. I don’t know anything for certain myself, only that all sorts of dreadful things have been happening. About noon I was chopping logs in the wood-shed, when I heard a great clamour at the gate. I ran to see what it was; and there were the soldiers in their helmets, with their pistols and their swords drawn, shouting to be let in, in the king’s name. The gate was opened fast enough, and they galloped up the avenue to the house. The master himself came down to the door to speak with them; and after that I knew nothing more, till they came to the stables with their horses, and a fine commotion they made there, I promise you! Nothing was half good enough for them. They swore at M. Ramard himself, called him bad names, and struck him with the flat of their swords.’ M. Ramard was the stately, dignified old coachman, an object of great awe and reverence in the eyes of the little wood-boy.
I said, ‘Never mind all that, Guillot; tell me of my father, my sister, and my brother.’
‘I believe the master is with the soldiers, trying to entertain them, and to keep them from doing worse harm. And I think, M. Gabriel,’ he added, lowering his, voice, ‘that Mademoiselle Desirée and Monsieur Louis have been hid somewhere. That is all I know.’
I gave the boy a message for my father, in case he should succeed in speaking with him unobserved, and with a sad heart turned my pony’s head towards Caudebec. Fortunately, I had wit enough to dismount before reaching the little town, and to leave Jeannot free to follow his own devices, which I have no doubt led him back in safety to his stable at Vigny. A solitary lad on foot, and in a greatcoat not over new, did not challenge suspicion; and I reached in safety the dwelling of my faithful nurse.
Here I told my sorrowful story, and was caressed and wept over, much to the comfort of my sore and aching heart. About six years before, Marie had married a respectable glove-maker, a Protestant, as were nearly all the skilled workmen of the two flourishing trades that gave the little town of Caudebec its wealth and its reputation. I need not speak of Caudebec hats; everyone has heard of them, and most people, with any pretensions to fashion, have worn them. Caudebec gloves are celebrated also, though not quite so widely; they are made of the skins of kids, specially prepared, and are so fine and soft that you can fold up a pair of them in a walnut-shell. But since the persecutions began, the skilled workmen had been leaving the town in such numbers that the authorities began to fear, with very good reason, that both the industries of the place would be entirely destroyed. Hence, when I came to Caudebec, they were by no means critical about the orthodoxy of those who would consent to remain; whilst, on the other hand, the most strenuous efforts were made to prevent flight, and the severest penalties were inflicted upon those who were caught in the attempt. Daniel Champfort would gladly have escaped long ago, but his wife withheld him, partly for the sake of her three infant children, but rather, I think, on account of the exceeding love she bore to our family, and especially to my mother; she could not endure the thought of leaving the neighborhood as long as she lived. I am sorry to add that both the Champforts had been forced into some act of apostasy during a visit of the dragoons to the town. I believe it went no farther than a simple utterance of the words ‘Je me réunis,’ — but it was then the policy of the persecutors to accept converts on the easiest terms. Only one member of the family, being happily absent at the time, had not ‘bowed the knee to Baal’; this was Hervé Champfort, Daniel’s son by a former wife, a lad two or three years older than I was, and as I write with gratitude and love — the best friend God ever gave me it was, of course, at some risk to themselves that the Champforts received me into their family. Yet, although my appearance was well enough known in Caudebec, there were few who would care to betray me, or to hint their suspicions that Marie Champfort’s invalid nephew from Rouen, who had come to her for good nursing and change of air, was really the young Sieur Gabriel de Vaur. I had got into the town very easily, I could remain in it easily enough; the difficulty would be (contrary to my father’s expectations) to get me out of it again.
The day after I came to Caudebec, Marie beckoned me into her sleeping-room. She closed the door with an air of mystery, and then, raising the covering of her bed, she put her hand into a slit in the mattress, and drew forth a small but heavy canvas bag. ‘Here, M. Gabriel,’ she said, ‘are two hundred louis d’or, which your father some time ago entrusted to my care, in case he should see occasion to send you to us, to be put on your way to England. Some time ago we could have done it with a good chance of success. Indeed, the town is more than half deserted, so many of our people have slipped down the river to Honfleur or Havre, where it was easy to get taken across in the English ships, or sometimes, for that matter, in our own. But now the authorities are wide awake. The quay is watched night and day; so are both banks of the river, and not a boat can put in or put off without the strictest search. As Hervé says, not so much as a mouse can get on board without the leave of the garde.’
‘But,’ I said, ‘I do not want to go now. In fact, I could not go without knowing the fate of my dear father, and of Desiree and Louis. Perhaps my father may send for me, or join me here.’
Marie shook her head, but she only answered, ‘Keep your “perhaps,” if it comfort you, poor child.’
Chapter 3.
The Narrative of Gabriel Vaur Continued Still
DAYS passed slowly into weeks, and weeks into months, and I was still in Caudebec with the Champforts. In compliance with my own earnest request — for I was soon tired of compulsory idleness — Daniel Champfort initiated me into the mysteries of glove-making, and I spent most of my time in this monotonous occupation, which had the double advantage of favoring my disguise and relieving my kind friends of the cost of my maintenance, since they could by no means be persuaded to touch the contents of the canvas bag. ‘No, no, M. Gabriel,’ my nurse would say; ‘that is for your food and shelter in the land of the stranger.’
I think that at this time my heart was well-nigh as sad as a young heart could possibly be. The days and weeks, as I look back upon them now, seem overspread with a dull, chilling mist of despondency and depression, which almost blots them from the view. My mother dead, my father, sister, and brother separated from me as completely as by death itself, and their fate encompassed with a horrible uncertainty, which enveloped also my own future — was it any wonder that hope and energy failed me, that I indulged in dreamy broodings over the past, or tried to lose myself in the dull, mechanical routine of the present, since the less I thought the less I suffered?
Gradually, however, some gleams of comfort and courage stole into my dreary life. It was chiefly to Hervé Champfort that I owed them. In the old times I had known my nurse’s stepson as a very entertaining companion, though a rather wild and idle boy, whom, unlike proverbial stepmothers, she regarded with great favor and liking, always taking his part with his father, and trying to excuse him when his inattention to business brought him into disgrace. ‘Hervé is not in the least a mauvais sujet,’ she used to say ‘He would be the best lad in the world if only there were no needles and threads in it.’ For Hervé hated glove-making, and too often used to make his escape from the workshop to the quay, where he would spend his time among the boats, talking to the sailors, and fostering his intense longing for an active and adventurous life.
But by the time I came to Caudebec, and began to share his bench in the workshop by day and his truckle-bed in the garret at night, a change had come over Hervé Champfort. During the visit of the dragoons, he had contrived to absent himself, and had thus evaded the choice between apostasy and suffering. He never spoke much of what he felt at that time, but once he let fall some words like these:—
‘I saw it behoved me to be a child no longer, but to ask myself in right earnest whether I meant to die for my faith, and what faith I had that was worth the dying for. And the end of my asking was this, M. Gabriel — I found out that nothing would do short of a living faith in a living Saviour. And I think He heard my cry, and gave it to me.’
After that, Hervé and I not only worked together, but together we studied the Word of God, and prayed for strength, at any cost to ourselves, to follow its teachings. Hervé never learned exactly to love the glove-maker’s needle, but he learned to perform with strict conscientiousness every duty required of him. ‘Faithful in that which is least, faithful also in much,’ he used to say; ‘I have never heard yet of a bad workman who made a good martyr.’ He was just the companion I needed at that time. His brave, cheerful, enterprising spirit roused my drooping energies. I have often thought since that he resembled Desiree in character, in so far as a son of the people could resemble the carefully trained and sheltered daughter of a noble house.
We used frequently to discuss together the chances of escape from our native land, which had now become a prison, and a very cruel one, for us. Many were the plans concocted in Hervé’s fertile brain, and unfolded to me as we sat at work. But I steadily refused to try any of them until some tidings should reach me from my home.
Tidings at last did reach me, but they only added yet sharper distress to my sorrow. My father — my heroic father — was in prison in Rouen, waiting to undergo his trial for the crime of contriving the flight and evasion of his children. His sentence could be nothing less than the galleys for life, unless he would purchase pardon at the price of apostasy, which no one who knew him thought possible for a moment. In spite of his precautions, Desiree and Louis had fallen, shortly after my own departure, into the hands of our persecutors, and, being minors, had been sent for their education to convent schools, Louis to Evreux, and Desiree to — No, I will not pollute my pages with the name of that place. God knows I have striven hard to forgive, even as I have been forgiven. And I think, now, that I do forgive from my heart. Yet, without doing harm to any living thing, I would still, if I had the power, lay every stone of that fatal prison-house even with the ground.
After a further interval of two or three months, we heard the tidings we expected. My father was condemned to the galleys, and his estates were — not confiscated, but — appointed to be held in trust for his son Louis de Vaur, who, having attained the legal age of seven years, ‘had abjured the pretended Reformed religion, and been converted to the Catholic faith.’ We were not surprised — who could be? — at the ‘conversion’ of a solitary and helpless little child, yet it was one drop more in our cup of sorrow. Poor Marie was inconsolable. ‘There goes your inheritance, M. Gabriel!’ she sobbed. ‘And that poor little M. Louis! To think that I nursed him in these arms for this! Oh, my God! why couldest Thou not have taken him to Thyself, along with the blessed babes that are sleeping side by side in the graveyard of Vaur? What had he done — the poor little innocent — that Thy curse should come upon him thus?’
‘Hush, hush, m’amie!’ said Champfort. ‘Do not talk of the Eternal in that way, as if you thought He was like King Louis. How can you tell who or what His curse comes upon?’
I shall never forget the look of anguish in the face of my nurse as she answered, ‘At least, Daniel Champfort, I can tell upon whom His curse is very sure to come. Upon thee and me, who know His truth and have forsworn it, — “He that denieth Me before men, him will I deny.” But this I say to you, my husband, and I bid you take good care to remember it. When I lie upon my bed of death — as I shall do soon enough, for all this misery is breaking my heart — let no priest or monk come near me, or I shall curse him to his face.’
Daniel Champfort was a quiet man, and always stood a little in awe of his stronger-minded wife. So he held his peace; but I remember thinking at the time that he was scarcely likely to brave the horrible profanation of the dead, and the cruel penalties inflicted on survivors, which followed the refusal by a dying person to receive the last sacraments of the Church.
That night Hervé said to me, ‘M. Gabriel, you have nothing further to wait for now. Let us go tomorrow.’ It had been previously agreed upon between us that we must make our way cautiously on foot to Honfleur, where Champfort had a relative, who, we thought, would help us to get across the Channel to England.
‘Why tomorrow?’ I asked, with a little shrinking from the beginning of the perilous adventure.
‘Because it is too late to go today; and because tomorrow, being a holiday, we can leave the town with less observation, as if for a country ramble.’
‘Agreed,’ said I; ‘but upon one condition. That you come with me where I want to go. I know it is somewhat out of our way, but I must try to see Desiree once more.’
‘M. Gabriel, you cannot see her. You know that.’
‘I don’t know that at all. I suppose the — the prisoners walk out sometimes, if only in the convent garden. Hervé, I have prayed God day and night to let me see her face again.’
Hervé made no further objection, and the next morning we started, looking just like a couple of apprentice lads bound for a holiday ramble, each of us carrying a wallet containing food for the day. Hervé was now seventeen, and, being very tall, seemed older than he really was; a fine, manly, open-faced youth, with light brown curling hair and frank blue eyes. I, on the contrary, did not look like my full age; I was then in my fifteenth year. Hervé carried my father’s louis d’or sewn into a belt, which he wore beneath his shirt. He had proposed that we should each carry half the money, or better, that I should take the whole, saying that some accident might separate us during the journey; but I would not agree to this, as I thought it would be safer in his keeping than in my own. We kept a few coins at hand, for our use during the journey.
Our first stage was accomplished with ease and safety, though our hearts were heavy enough, for Hervé was leaving forever a home that he truly and tenderly loved, and my parting with my poor nurse had been very sorrowful. Yet we were only boys, and insensibly our spirits rose with the sense of adventure, the consciousness of freedom, and the hope of safety — though that was still in the far distance. At length we reached the neighborhood of that convent — which I do not name. It stood on a hill, with a little village nestling beneath it, in which we easily found shelter for the night.
We now passed as brothers, apprenticed the one to a linen-draper, the other to a shoemaker, at Honfleur, whither we were returning after a visit to our parents. We were afraid to call ourselves glove-makers, that trade having been hitherto almost exclusively in the hands of Huguenots.
I spent as long as I dared loitering round the gloomy walls of the convent, in the vain and visionary hope of somehow or other catching a glimpse of the face I longed for. But I saw nothing; and Hervé urged that we should continue our journey the next morning, especially as the following day would be Sunday, and our absence from Mass would occasion suspicion. Still, I could not prevail on myself to leave the spot; so I proposed that as it was now midsummer, and glorious weather, we should set off as if on our journey, but linger all day in the neighborhood and sleep in the fields. To this loss of valuable time, as he considered it, Hervé very reluctantly consented. I could see that he thought me childish and unreasonable, and so indeed I was. But a Wiser than I over-ruled the event.
We found a safe resting-place in an empty shed belonging to an orchard, the gate of which had not been fastened, I suppose because the fruit was not yet ripe. We were very comfortable, and I think rather enjoyed the novelty of our position. I had fallen into a profound sleep, when I was awakened by Hervé shaking me, and calling on me to get up quickly. I woke in a fright, anticipating nothing short of discovery and arrest, and I was hardly reassured by the first words Hervé uttered: ‘M. Gabriel, the convent is on fire.’
I sprang to my feet. ‘Let us go,’ I said; ‘let us go and save Desirée.’
We were out on the road before I asked Hervé how he came to know it. He said that as he could not sleep it occurred to him to think what we should do if the owner should happen to lock the gate of the orchard before we got up in the morning. Intent on finding a mode of egress, he left the shed and climbed the wall, from the top of which he saw the fire.
We were not long in reaching the convent, which was situated on a hill about a mile from the place where we slept. All the retainers of the place, and as it seemed most of the villagers, were gathered about it in a terrified, disorderly crowd. The scene was one of utter confusion, some crying one thing, and some another. A well was near, and buckets of water were being brought from it and thrown here and there on the fire, but without much order or method. One wing of the building was already wrapped in flames; and in other parts of it we could see the fierce red tongues of fire shooting up at intervals. People were dragging furniture out by the great door and throwing it upon the grass.
Hervé turned to a bystander, and asked, ‘Are the ladies all safe?’
‘Yes, all. The Lady Abbess, the nuns, the boarders, and the lay sisters made their escape at the first alarm, and have taken shelter in yonder farmhouse.’
I whispered to Hervé, ‘She is not here, then. Come away. Perhaps we may have a chance of seeing her tomorrow.’
‘Wait a minute,’ said nerve, who was watching the scene with more interest than I did; ‘it is a pity to see a lot of brave fellows knocking about in each other’s way just for want of a little direction.’
‘Well,’ said I, rather impatiently, ‘it is none of our business. And since there are no lives at stake, what need we care about it?’
‘True enough. We will go, but first let us walk round to the other side and see what is doing there.’
Nothing was doing; the wing of the building which looked out on the kitchen garden seemed to be abandoned to its fate. A small back door stood open; it was, perhaps, the one by which the inmates had escaped. But outside all was dark and silent. Within there was a horrible light; the place seemed illuminated.
Suddenly Hervé grasped my arm and whispered, ‘Look!’
He pointed to a barred window in the third story. I caught one glimpse of a white face pressed against the pane, and I knew in that instant that it was the face of Desirée.
I dashed through the door, and was half-way up the already tottering staircase, when Herves flying feet overtook me, and his strong hand grasped my collar.
‘Go back,’ he said, in a hoarse, imperious whisper; you’re not strong enough for this! ‘Help us from below!’
‘It is my sister — my sister!’ I gasped, struggling with him like a maniac.
There was not a moment to be lost. I found myself pushed — or rather flung — down the staircase and out of the burning house in less time than it takes to write the words. Then I stood outside watching, and lifting up my heart in an agonized cry to God.
Presently the face disappeared from the window. There was a terrible interval, during which I saw new tongues of flame shoot up, and heard the crackling of glass and the fall of something heavy inside, perhaps some part of the staircase. During this time, which seemed interminable, I was joined by two or three loiterers from the crowd, to whom I think I said, ‘There is someone in there. He is gone to save her.’
By and by, at a lower window, two faces appeared, greeted by a shout from the group outside, which was now increasing every moment. This window, belonging probably to some lobby or corridor, was a large one, and had fortunately been left open, the weather being very warm. It was not more than twelve or fourteen feet above the ground. Then, outside, on the narrow ledge, we saw two figures, showing dark against the background of lurid light — one stalwart and manly, the other slight and frail, clasped like a little child in the arms of its deliverer.
‘Throw her down, comrade — throw her down!’ shouted those beneath, standing ready with outretched arms.
Hervé singled out the tallest and strongest-looking. ‘You!’ he cried. Come nearer, friend. Now steady — take her!’ Kneeling down on the ledge of the window, he carefully lowered his seemingly unconscious burden, so as to shorten the fall — or rather drop — as much as possible. It was accomplished safely and easily, and in another moment Desiree was laid on the grass, and I was bending over her. I found she was not really unconscious, for she stirred, moaned a little, and presently drank the wine one of the bystanders brought us. I asked if she was hurt, and she murmured something that I took for ‘No;’ but I thought she seemed stupefied with the shock and the terror. I saw that she did not recognize me, and I was afraid even to whisper to her who I was, lest her agitation might ruin us both.
Presently my attention was recalled to Hervé. He had leaped boldly from the window, and I believe he would have alighted in safety had not his foot unfortunately struck against a stone. I saw, to my dismay, that he lay fainting on the ground, surrounded by a pitying and admiring group, who were trying to restore him to consciousness.
I took off my coat and wrapped it round Desiree, entreating her to stay quiet where she was until I should come back to her, as I must go to the assistance of my friend. He was now recovering, and, in answer to my anxious inquiry, was able to tell me there was nothing hurt except his foot, and that he would soon be all right again.
‘Stoop down, will you,’ he added, and loose my necktie? I can’t undo the knot, and it is choking me.’ As I did so, he contrived to whisper. ‘Slip away with her at once, or they may get hold of her again. Go to the place where we slept. If I don’t join you by noon tomorrow, go on without me — to Honfleur.’ Then aloud, ‘Thank you; that’s better. Now, Jacques, I advise you to take yourself home, and tell our parents what has happened, or they will be frightened.’
I returned to Desiree, who seemed not to have stirred hand or foot since I left her, and whispered that we must go. ‘Can you walk a little way?’ I asked. She answered ‘Yes.’ I helped her to her feet, and drew her hand — a limp, nerveless, wasted hand — beneath my arm, supporting her tottering footsteps as well as I could, while we slipped away unnoticed into the soft gloom (for it was scarcely darkness) of that midsummer night.
We soon reached the solitary path which led, between fields of growing corn, to our refuge in the orchard. No one thought of pursuing us; what became of the rescued girl seemed to be the business of no one, at least of no one in the group that witnessed the adventure. ‘We are safe here,’ I said at last, with a great throb of joy at my heart. ‘Oh, Desiree, my own dear sister! Thank God for giving you back to me!’
She said no word in answer, but I scarcely noticed her silence. There was no room in my heart for any feeling but joy, — exulting, wondering joy, — that I had her with me again, restored to me as it were from the dead. It seemed as if my home had come back to me. How fondly I would cherish and protect her! How carefully I would guard her from every peril, until we should find a new home in the land of our exile, where I might work for her and minister to her comfort every day! Oh, if only we could tell my father we had rescued Desiree — his beloved Desiree! My father — I began to ask myself had she heard his fate. ‘Have you heard about our father?’ I said aloud.
She answered ‘Yes,’ but in a weary, indifferent tone. ‘She is still stupefied,’ I thought, with the terror of the fire; and doubtless she is also very tired. Are you tired, dear?’ I asked.
‘Yes,’ she answered, in the same tone.
‘Well,’ I said, ‘we have nearly reached our resting-place. Lean on me as heavily as you can.’ Poor child, she was but a light weight then; I think I could have carried her. ‘We will not begin to talk,’ I added, until you have rested and have had some food. I am so glad I have some bread and meat in my wallet. Are you hungry?’
The same dull, mechanical ‘Yes’ was the answer still.
We reached the friendly shed, and I made her as comfortable as I could. I gave her food, and fetched her a cup of water from a little stream we had found out under the trees. She drank the water eagerly, but ate very little. As she seemed half dead with fatigue, I made a bed for her of some shavings which had been left in the shed, covered her with my coat, and advised her to try and sleep, saying I would watch beside her and take care of her.
She closed her eyes, and I think that almost immediately she fell asleep. The light was now increasing, and I sat and watched my treasure, so wondrously recovered, with an indescribable mingling of feelings in my heart. A dull, awful foreboding began already to shadow my joy. Why was Desiree — my Desiree — so strangely, sadly changed? Why had she no word to say to me, no question to ask? How had they dealt with her? When would she be able to tell me all about it? Her face, as I saw it in the gray morning light, looked wan and ghastly, her form wasted and shrunken. But, oh! was this all the change in her? Was it only the outward frame of my brave, bright sister upon which the blight had passed? I longed for her waking to put an end to a horrible fear — a fear that could not frame itself into words — which began to haunt me. It grew the more real the more I pondered over all that had passed between us — and that had not passed between us — since her rescue.
Chapter 4.
Flight
SHE did not sleep long; the sun had but just risen in his glory when she stirred, opened her eyes, and looked at me. Were I to live a hundred years, I should never forget that look. Instead of the glad, bright greeting I longed for, the rapture of recovered freedom, the joy of reunion, there was only a dull, black, vacant gaze, that filled my heart with anguish. I tried, though my voice almost failed me in the effort, some little caressing word. But still she gazed at me unheeding, with that terrible look of vacancy. She did not even seem to know me. Her eyes were like the eyes of Jaquelot, the widow’s grandson, who could learn nothing, not even to play with the toys we pitying children brought him from the château, and whose poor old grandmother used to wish him safe with the good God — ‘and why had He made him like that?’ Surely this was not Desiree. Was not the real Desiree gone away to heaven, to our mother, and was not this only the shell, the outward form? Yet no; I could not take even that comfort to my heart. In my agony I rushed out of the shed, and with a great cry flung myself on the ground and buried my face in the grass. Once before, in a far less bitter sorrow, I had done this. But now no tears came. It is over the dead one weeps — the blessed dead — and Desiree, my Desiree, was not dead, and yet she was not living This was a living death.
I think that for a little while I too was beside myself. I remember writhing in my anguish; striking the senseless ground in the passion of my grief, till my hands were bruised and sore. I had to strike something, for my heart was full of rage. Was it against God Himself I was rebelling — God who had suffered this dreadful thing to come to pass; God who had mocked me by seeming to hear and to answer my prayer — and given me a stone instead of bread?
It was my poor Desiree herself who brought me back to my senses. She came towards me with a slow, wavering, uncertain step, and hands stretched out as if for protection. I suppose she had not cared to find herself left alone in the shed. I rose up, and put my arm round her, taking her hand in mine. ‘Desiree,’ I said, with trembling lips — ‘my own sister Desiree — don’t you know me? Don’t you know Gabriel, your twin brother?’ A wistful, yearning look, most pathetic to see, came into her dim eyes. She seemed to be seeking something she had lost. She raised her other hand to her head, and paused as if trying to remember. ‘Gabriel.’ she murmured. ‘Yes — Gabriel.’ But almost immediately the gleam of light faded again into the darkness of vacancy.
Yet I think that from that time she knew me. She seemed quite contented in my presence; and nearly always did, or tried to do, anything I asked her. But she never seemed to remember the absent members of the family, nor did she show any interest, or even intelligence, when I spoke of them. She was never able, either then or Afterward, to tell me anything of her own experiences since we parted. It was only from her wasted frame, and certain marks of violence which I afterwards saw, that I was able to guess the sufferings, of body as well as of mind, which had so sadly blighted the fair promise of her young life.
Up to this time, I do not think it had occurred to me to hate our persecutors, or to invoke God’s vengeance upon them. I was very young, and had not yet thought much for myself. Moreover, King Louis and his evil counselors were very far away from us; we looked on them less as persons than as ministers of a terrible fate — or, I should rather say, as instruments in the hand of Providence. For we had been carefully taught to trace every event to its highest, ultimate source; and to attribute every trial, not to the wickedness of our fellow-men, but to the just judgment of our God, who was chastising us for our sins against Him. Not for my father consigned to the galleys, not for my brother torn from us forever, had I felt the fierce passion of hate, the burning thirst for revenge, that the sight of Desiree stirred within me. I think there was no torture I would have shrunk from inflicting upon those accursed nuns, those beings in the form of women — were they women or fiends? — who had done such foul wrong to an innocent, helpless girl. Why had not God allowed them to perish in their burning house — a living sacrifice to the Moloch they worshipped? I told myself that now I understood all their vileness. Ashamed of their own work, and tired of a burdensome charge, they had left my poor Desiree, on purpose, behind them to a horrible death. In this at least I was unjust to them, as I Afterward found. But what did it signify? Any crime, any cruelty was believable.
Unfortunately, they could not fail to hear of the rescue, and they would seek to recover their captive, if only to conceal their iniquity from the outside world. But they should never touch her again — never! I would fight for her, and defend her to my last breath; nay, I would kill her with my own hands, rather than give her back into theirs. But how was I — a mere boy, and accustomed hitherto to lean upon others — to bring her safely through all the dangers that beset us both? With all my heart I longed for Hervé. Would that he might soon rejoin us! He would tell me what to do; would, in fact, according to his wont, think and act for both of us.
As the day wore on, and there was no sign of his approach, I began to grow very anxious. I gave what little food I had still left to Desiree, who was fortunately quite calm and passive, content to lie on her couch of shavings, not sleeping, but resting, for she was evidently weak and weary. I was the more uneasy at Hervé’s continued absence, because he still wore the belt that contained my little fortune. It was not the thought of its loss that troubled me; for indeed at that time I cared very little about it, but the certainty that nothing short of his own arrest would keep Hervé from bringing it back to me.
But as time passed on, and still he did not appear, it became absolutely necessary for us to go without him. To keep Desiree longer in the neighborhood would be to risk the dreaded recapture. But without Hervé, who had hitherto been my guide and counselor, I felt a very child, alone in a hostile world. I dared not think of the dangers that on every side menaced me, and still more my helpless charge. Of course the presence of Desiree, and the necessity of guarding her from discovery, added tenfold to my difficulties. I knelt down in the shed, and asked God to help and direct me. I would fain have had Desiree kneel beside me; but she resisted, showing so strong a repugnance to the attitude, that I suppose there remained on the poor bewildered brain some impression of compulsion, formerly used to make her take part in acts of superstitious worship.
I could not that day look up to my Father in heaven with the happy, childlike confidence I used to feel. The rage and bitterness that filled my heart rose up about me like a wall of separation, that seemed to shut me out from Him. Yet I believed that He would hear and help me — at least for my poor Desiree’s sake. And indeed when I rose up again I saw my way more clearly It was now long past midday; so it was only too certain that Hervé had been hindered from coming to us. I took Desiree’s hand in mine, and said to her simply, ‘Let us go.’ We left the shed and the orchard, and presently regained the high road.
The most pressing of our needs was a change of clothing for Desiree. She still wore the usual dress of a convent boarder (a kind of serge frock, I think), and this would have easily exposed her to detection. It was well for me that the little purse in which we kept our loose money happened to remain in my possession, and that it contained so much as two louis d’or and some silver. I had therefore the means of purchasing what was necessary, but how was I to do it? If I brought Desiree with me into any town or village her dress would betray us, while, on the other hand, I could by no means venture to leave her.
Just when I was neither trustful nor submissive, nor indeed in any sense an obedient child, my, Heavenly Father graciously interposed for me, and sent me the very help I needed.
We met a young peasant girl, neatly dressed in her simple holiday costume, and carrying a small basket — a sight which reminded me, for the first time, that this was Sunday afternoon. I opened a conversation by asking my way, and found her disposed to be friendly and communicative. She told me she was going to visit her grandmother, and to bring her a cake of her own baking. No one who has not been under the lash of the stern schoolmaster Fear, can understand the marvelous coolness and quickness in inventing plausible stories which he succeeds in teaching his pupils. I was by this time an adept in the art, and had overcome the feeling that used to haunt me at first, that it was a species of lying. So I said to her, with a very innocent air, that we were in great difficulties, that I had been visiting my sister, who was a boarder in a neighboring convent, and had foolishly induced her to play truant with me; that if we were caught she would be shut up in a cell on bread and water, while I should be sent back in disgrace to my master, who would punish me severely. ‘But,’ I added, ‘if I could only bring my sister in safety to our parents at Honfleur, they would make her peace with the Lady Abbess, and mine with my master, and so all would be well; and we would both take care to behave more wisely in future. Had I but a less remarkable dress for my sister, I have no fears about managing the rest.’ I ended by showing her a bright golden louis, which was to be hers if she would consent to change garments with Desiree. I do not think she had ever seen so much money before; she told me she had never possessed even a demi-ecu of her own. Her blue eyes opened wide with wonder and delight; and she volunteered to throw her basket of cake into the bargain, since mademoiselle might be glad of it; while, as for herself, she must now return home, for she could not go visiting her grandmother dressed up like a sister of charity. So she took Desiree into a neighboring field, whence they presently emerged again, Desiree in a blue woolen petticoat and a white bodice much too large for her, this defect being concealed, however, by a scarlet handkerchief neatly pinned across her breast, while a high, white, well-starched cap covered her dark hair. Our new friend could hardly have failed to notice her infirmity, but she made no remark. I asked her to keep the little transaction a secret, and she promised to tell no one but her father and mother, whose tare the Louis d’or would pay, and who would be — ‘oh so grateful to monsieur!’ Our parting was most amicable.
In my terror lest we should be pursued, I made poor Desirée walk until she was well-nigh exhausted; but at last we found shelter for the night in one of a secluded group of cottages, whose inmates collected bark for the tanners in a neighboring oak forest. I cannot now remember whether it was the next day, or a day or two afterwards, that I heard a stranger in a little village shop, where I went to buy bread, tell the story of the burning convent. He said that a boarder, who was in delicate health, had been accidentally forgotten, because she was in the infirmary, away from the other children; that the Lady Abbess was almost out of her mind when she heard of the omission, and gave up the poor girl for lost; but that in the meantime a brave young man, a stranger in the place, had rescued her at the peril of his life; that he was still lying ill of the hurts he had received; while the young girl herself, who was of weak intellect, had disappeared in the confusion, a considerable reward being offered for her discovery and restoration to her guardians.
This news decided me to make my way as quickly and as quietly as I could to Honfleur, where the cousin of Champfort would, as I trusted, help us to escape by sea to England. There, too, I hoped most earnestly that Hervé might be able to join us. But, whether or no, I knew I dared not forfeit any chance that might offer of a passage to England, both for my own sake and for that of my helpless sister.
I have often wondered at the capricious way in which memory acts or refuses to act. Whilst up to the point I have now reached in my narrative every incident, almost every word, that in any way influenced my life, stands out as distinctly visible as did every twig and leaf of the pear tree beside the convent on the night of the fire, the details of my after-wanderings with Desirée have for the most part faded from my mind. I know that, on account of her weakness, our progress was very slow; that we sometimes missed our way, or turned aside from it to avoid observation; and that we found shelter for the most part in farmhouses or cottages, where we met with much kindness from the simple people, who pitied her helpless condition. I am quite sure some of them guessed the truth about us, from expressions of compassion for the Huguenots which they let fall, as if purposely, in our hearing; and I recall most gratefully the help they gave us on our way. More than once, too, we met with members of our own faith, who either had submitted to a nominal conversion, and were therefore called New Catholics, or who had hitherto resisted or evaded persecution. But at Honfleur a great disappointment was in store for me. I found my way to the relative of Champfort to whom I had been directed, a prosperous linen-draper named Lupon. Like Champfort, he had conformed to ‘the king’s religion,’ but his apostasy had gone much farther than that of the honest glove-maker of Caudebec. He now assured me that the idea of flight was utterly impracticable. Not only were all vessels that left the shore subjected to a most rigorous search, but because the fugitives had been often concealed in barrels, or in bales of merchandise, the plan had been adopted of fumigating the hold of every ship with a gas so poisonous that no living creature could remain alive. And he reminded me that if I was arrested in the attempt to leave the kingdom (as, if not killed, I would be very sure to be) my doom, since I was now over fourteen, would be the galleys for life, adding horrible stories of the cruelties inflicted on the Huguenot galley slaves.
I am sorry to record the answer I gave him. I turned to Desire; who was standing by, hearing but not comprehending our conversation. I took her hand in mine and said, ‘I had rather be broken alive on the wheel than kneel at the altar of those who have made my sister what she is today.’
M. Lupon shook his head sorrowfully. ‘You are a brave boy,’ he said. ‘I like your courage, but you will find it will not do. We have all had to submit to the king’s will, and so must you. If God had meant us to resist, He would have opened for us some possible way of escape.’ He went on to offer me, with much kindness, a home for myself and Desiree, as long as I would be content to stay with him, and to render the barest outward conformity to the Catholic Church. But he could not put his own neck in the halter, and ruin his wife and children by promoting my escape — for by a recent caprice of tyranny, while the fugitive himself was sent to the galleys, the accomplice of his flight was liable to capital punishment. I never could understand the reason for this — if reason there were; unless, indeed, it was a recognized fact that the galleys were worse than the grave.
I declined M. Lupon’s hospitality, and, leaving a message for Hervé, set forth again on my weary wanderings, with my poor sister at my side. My plan, as far as I had any plan at all, was to keep close to the seashore, in a forlorn hope of somewhere or somehow finding a boat or ship that might take us across the Channel to England. I thought that at Cherbourg, if not nearer, this might be attainable. Looking back upon my own feelings at that time, I see in them so much of hatred and bitterness, so much of that wrath of man that worketh not the righteousness of God, that I am amazed at His goodness in allowing me to witness for Him, and calling me to bear His cross. Surely the sacrifice I laid upon His altar was a blemished and imperfect one, yet I believe He accepted it for the sake of the one pure and perfect Sacrifice, in whom there is no blemish, neither spot nor stain of sin.
Meanwhile, our life of constant exercise in the open air had been insensibly restoring the bodily health of Desiree. With improved health came flickering gleams of intelligence, which, faint and fading though they were, sometimes stirred within me a wild, irrational hope that the true Desiree — my Desiree — might one day come back to me again. I did not gain much by talking to her, as at first I often used to do, of our home and the childhood we had shared together. But sometimes, when I repeated a familiar text, or a hymn learned at our mother’s knee, she would seem to recognize the words; once or twice she even completed a line or a verse I had begun. She would call me by my name, and say, ‘I am tired, Gabriel,’ or ‘Give me some bread, Gabriel.’ She would show unmistakable pleasure when we met again after our separation for the night, although I am sure the women of the houses where we received shelter, into whose care I used to give her, always showed her every kindness.
So we went on slowly westward by the sea. Many a time did I gaze on the blue waters, the symbol of the freedom I longed for, with a yearning wish that He who of old made a path through the deep, that His ransomed might pass over, would interpose thus for His suffering remnant in France, crushed under the heel of a more cruel tyrant than Egyptian Pharaoh. But the age of miracles was past.
Yet, was it past? It seems to me now, though it took me years to learn the lesson, that the faith and patience of our saints and martyrs was a greater miracle than their deliverance would have been; that it was a grander thing to go through the great water-floods on foot with Christ than to be led by some new Moses upon dry ground in the midst of the sea, to the green and smiling shores of some new Promised Land.
Still, though God often allowed His own to suffer, He did in very many instances wonderfully interpose by His providence to deliver them, and to enable them to escape to more favored lands, where they could worship Him in peace. I suppose that in these cases He either saw they were not strong enough for martyrdom, or — more likely — He had work for them to do in the land of the stranger.
One day, towards evening, Desirée and I were walking slowly up a steep hill when we saw a very handsome traveling-carriage approaching us. There was a postillion, there were gold-laced lackeys, and I know not what beside. Inside the coach were two gentlemen and three ladies, but I did not then look at them particularly, for I saw the travelers were in difficulties. The descent was too steep for the horses, and they refused to proceed; yet it was dangerous, if not impossible, to stop them where they were. Before the servants had time to alight (which they ought to have done sooner), I ran forward quickly with a large stone in either hand, and, by placing one of them under each of the great back wheels, relieved the horses of the weight of the carriage, and made it possible for those inside to descend in safety. They did so, a gentleman, who seemed the head of the party, giving directions to the servants, whilst a young man, who might have been his son, assisted the ladies. One of these, a slight young girl, sprang quickly out and went up to the elder gentleman, and I saw that she was drawing his attention to me, and reminding him to thank me for the little service I had rendered. Both turned towards me, and then, to my utter amazement, I saw that the young lady was Aimee de Vigny. Knowing nothing of her companions, I was afraid to make myself known to her directly; but to give her a chance of recognizing me if she could — and if she dared — I looked at her earnestly, as, bowing low, I lifted my cap in acknowledgment of the kind words that were addressed to me.
I was overjoyed to hear her exclaim aloud, as one who had nothing to fear, ‘Oh, uncle, uncle, it is Gabriel de Vaur!’
A rapid interchange of explanations followed, and I soon understood that they also were fleeing from their native land. Aimee introduced me to her uncle, M. de Belmont, and then brought me to her mother, who, greatly agitated, embraced me with much tenderness. She asked for news of my family, and I told my sorrowful story in a few words, adding that Desiree was with me, but if madame would see her she must prepare for a great shock, as she was not the Desiree of past days, and would not even recognize her friends.
‘See her?’ said M. de Belmont, who was standing near — ‘of course we will see her! We are not going to part with the son and daughter of my sister’s best friend. If you cast in your lot with us, we will do our best to see you safe upon English ground.’
Chapter 5.
The Narrative of Gabriel Vaur Concluded
I WAS speechless with joy and thankfulness, I and went willingly to fetch Desiree, whom I had left seated by the side of the road. Aimee volunteered to accompany me.
‘My uncle is so good, so clever,’ she explained, as she did so, in a rapid whisper. ‘He has laid his plans so well that they can scarcely fail. A boat is to come for us tonight to a lonely spot on the shore, not far from this, and to take us to the English ship from Havre which is waiting for us as close as it dare come to the land.’
‘But,’ said I, ‘I thought your uncle was a Catholic.’
‘He conformed twenty years ago to get a good place under Government, that he might marry a lady to whom he was greatly attached. But he repented long ago, and now, when so many are suffering for their faith, he says he can bear the remorse and concealment no longer. So he has cast in his lot with us, and we are all escaping together. But here is Desiree. No — is it Desiree, Gabriel?’
The meeting was a very sad one. Desiree was bewildered and frightened, and could by no means be made to understand that the young lady was a friend, and an old one, whilst Aimee could not restrain her tears. It was only by keeping my poor sister’s hand in mine that I could reassure her, and induce her first to go amongst the group of strangers, then to enter the carriage. The young lady and gentleman whom I did not know proved to be relatives of M. de Belmont, who were sharing his flight, and the gentleman kindly volunteered to go outside, that Desiree and I might not be separated.
As we proceeded on our way, our friends told me further particulars of their journey and their plans. The aged aunt of Madame de Vigny died shortly after the hurried removal of the family to the residence of M. de Belmont. After that event, the persecution deepened in horror; and a visit from the dragoons — with all the nameless outrages they knew how to inflict, especially upon ladies — was expected every day. Then it was that M. de Belmont reached his decision, choosing the reproach of Christ rather than the treasures of Egypt. He adopted, for his flight, a bold and clever expedient. The safety others sought in concealing their rank and hiding their treasure he hoped to find in exaggerating the one and expending the other lavishly. So he traveled in such state that everyone took him for at least the Intendant of a province; and in a country where subservience to rank and office are certainly carried rather to an extreme, people were little likely to be critical about his passports or troublesomely inquisitive about his destination. If any over-officious garde or douane ventured to interfere, M. de Belmont well knew how to crush him, from the awful eminence of his dignity, with a word or a glance of scorn. The coachman, the lackeys, and the postillions were all Protestant gentlemen of the neighborhood, sharing his flight in this disguise.
Meanwhile, a clever agent had been sent to Havre, ostensibly to dispose of the cider and perry for which the Belmont orchards were famous, but really to arrange with the captain of the English ship to whom they were consigned, to lie-to near a solitary spot on the coast, whence a boatman, richly bribed, was to convey the party on board.
Hitherto all had gone prosperously, and our friends were in good spirits, their natural grief at the prospect of exile being more than counterbalanced by the hope of a speedy deliverance from a state of continual peril and alarm. Madame de Vigny and Aimee — Mademoiselle de Vigny, I should say, and I will try to do so in future — were, however, greatly occupied with my poor Desiree; indeed, they could hardly refrain from tears, as they took her worn, nerveless hands in theirs, and caressed and spoke to her tenderly, trying in vain to touch some chord of remembrance in the darkened mind. Yet, although there was no apparent response to the love they lavished on her, I soon saw that she liked and trusted them, especially Aimee, with whom she was well content to stay, when at last we reached the shore and alighted from the carriage.
I joined the gentlemen, who were unharnessing the horses. These we turned loose, and left the carriage where it stood; taking out the cloaks and rugs it contained, which we brought down to the beach and spread on the shingle as seats for the ladies. It was now early autumn, and the night was cold, with a sharp and cutting wind; but a bright, full moon beamed upon us, touching the crested waves with silver.
M. de Favre, the young cousin of M. de Belmont who had given me his seat in the carriage, now handed me a small basket of provisions and a flask of wine, and told me to go to the ladies, and request them to take a little refreshment, as they might have to wait a considerable time before the boat appeared. As he did so, I saw the steel of his pistol flash in the moonlight. He noticed my look of curiosity, and explained, ‘We are all armed, for patrols belonging to the coastguard have been set all along the shore, and they may come upon us at any moment. Should they do so, we must fire on them, and take our chance of making good our escape before they recover from their surprise and confusion. That is why you are told off to wait upon the ladies, and I think you had better remain with them. You are unarmed, and, so to speak, only a child.’
I did not like to be called a child, foolish as it may seem of me, at such a time, to have thought of such a trifle. However, I did my best for the ladies, and was touched with gratitude by their tender ways with Desiree, and especially by Mademoiselle Aimee, who took a soft, warm shawl from her own shoulders, and wrapped it round the shivering frame of her former play-fellow.
After a long and weary watch, not diversified by any incident, a boat with four oars was seen approaching us. There were two men in it, one of whom sprang on shore and hastened up to us.
‘Quick, quick, messieurs and mesdames said he, in a frightened whisper, though at that time and place he might just as safely have shouted. There is not a moment to lose. We have seen the sails of the frigate out yonder in the offing, and shall have as much as we can do to dodge her.’
Shall we do it, do you think?’ asked M. de Belmont, approaching.
‘Well, monsieur, I am willing to try. That is all I can say, and enough too, since it concerns this,’ and he drew his hand significantly across his throat.
‘And your comrade yonder?’
‘Is my son, monsieur. Now, let us help the ladies into the boat, and perhaps a couple of these gentlemen will take an oar?’
He shook his head, however, when he saw that we mustered in all eleven persons.
‘Two more than I bargained for,’ he muttered.
‘Never mind, my good fellow; there are more Louis d’or than you bargained for ready for you in this purse of mine.’
‘Very good, monsieur — but what if we go down?’
‘Better that than leave one of our number behind. Come, there’s no time to lose.’
We were soon packed as close, M. de Favre observed, as herrings in a barrel. He and one of the gold-laced footmen took the spare oars. M. de Belmont steered, and we put Desiree, who was frightened at the sight of the waves, in the bottom of the boat, I sitting next her at the side.
We were so heavily freighted that our progress was slow, though the rowers strained every nerve. At first no object was visible upon the moving waste of waters. But at last the boatmen raised a joyous cry, and pointed to something in the distance. ‘There she is — pull away — the best you can!’
There was need, for almost at the same moment we discerned also our relentless foe — the frigate stationed to watch the coast. Strange that so fair a sight as that of a white sail on the blue waters should be fraught with terror and threaten anguish worse than death.
Slowly the minutes wore away, the longest I have known in my life. Though the rowers redoubled their exertions, we seemed to ourselves to be making no progress. Yet it appeared to us that both the ships were drawing sensibly nearer. We concluded that we had been seen from both, and that both were trying to approach us, the prize being to which of them should seize it first. The wind, blowing directly shorewards, was almost equally favorable to each, though the boatmen made some remark I did not understand, about the frigate having two points more than the other one. But then we were rowing towards the English ship and with all the strength of despair.
Silence, broken only by a brief word exchanged now and then by M. de Belmont and the boatmen settled down upon us all. If we chanced to look at each other’s faces, we saw that they showed ghastly white in the moonlight. But we seldom looked anywhere except at the two black hulls, now full in sight, of which the one seemed so terribly near, the other all too far. We heard — as not hearing — the plashing of the oars, and now and then the wild cry of a sea-bird.
Suddenly the voice of Aimee broke the silence. I believe that she did not intend to speak aloud, that she only gave a voice unconsciously to the thought that filled her mind. “ ‘Jesus saw them toiling in rowing, for the wind was contrary unto them; and about the fourth watch of the night He cometh unto them, walking on the sea.”’ I think a thrill passed through every heart amongst us, and instinctively we looked across the waves where the moonbeams left their track of light, half expecting a Form and a Presence in which all our fears should vanish away.
If we did not see Him, we saw at least the evidence of His protecting care. The saints bless your sweet face, ma’am’selle!’ said the boatman, resting for an instant on his oar; ‘your good words have brought us luck! Yon frigate comes no nearer.’
It was true enough. Either we had not been seen at all from the frigate, and the movements which excited our fears had been merely meant to show the English ship (which was clearly out of her course) that she was watched and threatened, or for some reason the idea of capturing us had been abandoned. It may have been despair of reaching us, or, what was very possible, the officer in command may have had no heart for his work, and purposely allowed the prey to slip through his fingers. Those that went down to the sea in ships often showed us mercy and favor.
After that, the time seemed short until we found ourselves in the welcome shadow of the English merchantman. Desiree, as the weakest of us all, was the first to be passed up the vessel’s side, to the outstretched arms of the kind, unknown friends who had done so much for us; then the other ladies were helped on board, and the rest of us followed them as quickly as we could. An offer was made to take the boatmen also, lest they should be captured before regaining their home; but they declined, as they preferred running some risk to losing their boat.
Meanwhile the crew and officers of the English ship crowded round us, giving us a hearty welcome. Then M. de Belmont uncovered his head, and in a few brief words, full of emotion, gave thanks for our deliverance to Almighty God. We all responded with a hearty Amen — all, at least, except the one who knew not her deliverance, as she had not known her peril. To fill up the measure of our joy the wind was now changing, and the sailors were busy setting every sail they had to catch the favoring breeze that was to bring us speedily to the haven where we would be. So it was that, after a brisk run across the Channel, in which we met with no further adventure, we all landed at Plymouth in safety and in peace.
Here, perhaps, I ought to conclude these brief records of my boyhood. Yet there are one or two things I still wish to record. M. de Belmont and his party, who had carried away a good deal of valuable property, in the shape of money and jewels, concealed about their persons, established themselves at Greenwich, near the excellent Marquis de Ruvigny, the kind friend and generous protector of his fellow-exiles, beneath whose shadow so many of them dwelt in the land of the stranger. Through his influence the younger gentlemen, when King William came over afterwards, got commissions in the army. I was most kindly urged to take up my abode with my friends, Desiree of course remaining with us.
Should anyone blame me for refusing this generous offer, I can only say that he does not know all the circumstances. We found before us in England a great crowd of our fellow-exiles for conscience’ sake, most of whom had come over utterly destitute. More were arriving every day, and the comparatively small minority who, like M. de Belmont, had some command of money, could not shut their hearts or their purses to the needs of their less fortunate brethren.
I ought to add that the English people came forward most liberally to our aid, yet even their munificent contributions could not meet the continually increasing necessity. It was therefore incumbent upon all of us who could, by any possibility, maintain ourselves, to do so. Hearing that some Caudebec men had settled in Southwark, I went to visit them, and found them eager to resume their former occupation, that of the manufacture of the celebrated Caudebec hats, since they possessed valuable secrets touching the preparation of the skins. I did not care much about this, but I fortunately met among them a few glovers, who were trying to start, in a modest way, a little business of their own. Recalling what I had learned at Caudebec, I offered my services, and soon found that in ‘Merrie England’ no one need want for bread who had two good hands, and the skill to use them in an honest craft.
My friends were at first scandalized at my conduct, and could not understand my choosing the lot of a tradesman in Southwark in preference to that of a penniless young gentleman in Greenwich. It was in vain that I quoted the wise saying of King Solomon, ‘Better is he that is despised and is his own servant than he that honoureth himself and lacketh bread.’ I was told in reply that I should never lack bread so long as they had a morsel for themselves.
‘True,’ I answered; ‘but the bread I eat would be taken from someone more helpless and destitute than I am.’
What pained me more than anything else was that Madame de Vigny could never be brought to see the matter from my point of view. ‘A De Vaur, my dear friend — a De Vaur,’ she would repeat, as if that settled the question — ‘for a De Vaur to stitch gloves at so many sous the pair is enough to confuse all one’s ideas and endanger the fabric of society.’
I answered, ‘My father rows a galley for Christ’s sake, and you all honor him for it; why then should the son be dishonored by stitching gloves for Christ’s sake?’
My friends then offered to take charge of Desiree, and urged the proposal with much kindness. But I told them — even I believe with tears — that God had given her to me, that He meant me to take care of her, and that I should feel quite useless and alone in the world without her. So we came here, and here we have lived ever since, safe and sheltered, with many blessings to be thankful for. Desiree’s health has improved, and she seems happy, especially since she has been able to do a little silk-winding for our neighbors who work at their former trade of weaving. I often think she has more intelligence than appears, and understands what she can never express. I should sorely miss her dear, patient face, and her silent, calm companionship, if they were taken from me now.
I own that at first her strange, irreparable loss cost me more tears and more anguish than even the thought of my father at the galleys or my little brother taught to curse the faith he had learned at his mother’s knee. I could understand a willing martyrdom, I could understand a forced apostasy, but here the very mind that willed and chose, the very person herself — seemed lost and gone from me. Lost, not as we lose the dead, whom we know to be living and loving still in another place, but faded, passed into nothingness, like a shadow or the reflection in a mirror. My father was in Toulon or at sea, my mother was in heaven, Louis was in the convent at Evreux, but where — oh where? — was my bright and beautiful Desiree, the glad companion of my happy childhood? I sometimes returned to the fancy that had come to me in the first hour of my sorrow, that the true Desiree was in heaven, and that only the outside — the shell or chrysalis — lingered still on earth. But then some look or tone would confuse and bewilder me, by recalling the past days and the old, the real Desiree.
At last — but not, I think, for years — peace and comfort came to me. It did not come ‘with observation,’ but silently and slowly, like the dawn of a northern summer day. It was just that my heart grew gradually into a closer and fuller acquaintance with the heart of my Saviour and Friend in heaven. I used to wonder sometimes, even with passionate tears and prayers, how He bore the nameless cruelties and outrages inflicted upon those who are His members, ‘of His flesh and of His bones’ — how He could sit still in His place of rest and glory, and not interpose for them by thunderbolt or blinding flash or voice from heaven, as of old, ‘Why persecutest thou Me?’ Often, as fresh stories of bitter wrong and suffering reached us in our exile, have I cried aloud, in the very anguish of my soul, ‘O Christ, — loving, pitiful Christ, who died for us, — how canst Thou endure these things?’
The answer came, as His answers are wont to come now, not in the thunder from on high, but in the low whisper of His Spirit from within. I learned that ‘in all their afflictions He was,’ nay He is, ‘afflicted.’ He who suffered for them once suffers in them now. He who would not have the cup pass from Himself, except it were the Father’s will — He who Himself for the joy that was set before Him endured the cross, despising the shame — would not let the cup pass from them, would have them also endure the cross, that they, with Him, might one day sit down in His joy and glory, at the right hand of the Majesty of heaven. I learned the innermost holy secret of that Divine love which is strong enough — not to quench the violence of fire, but to do a far harder thing, — to walk with the loved ones in the furnace heated seven times, that He might bring them forth out of it triumphant and purified. I did not doubt that even so He walked with my father; and that He would deal in pitying kindness with my poor young brother, the child of many prayers. Even for Desiree I could say at last, ‘His will be done!’ After all, had not she been privileged to give for Him even more than life itself? What though her remaining years on earth must glide by in a kind of dim, half-conscious slumber? Would not her awaking in the Better Land be all the more glorious? How would it be with her when, freed from the chain that had bound her here, she should stand in His presence, with faculties fresh and young, and eye undimmed, to see the King in His beauty, and to exult in the splendor’s of the land that is very far away? Then I should find again the true Desiree — my Desiree — I should lead her willing feet into the green pastures and beside the still waters. Or rather, He who is the true Shepherd of our souls should lead us both, with all His other chosen ones, who have ‘come out of great tribulation,’ having washed their robes and made them white in the blood of the Lamb.
No angry passions could dwell in the heart possessed by these thoughts of peace. Like the brethren of Joseph, our enemies thought evil against us; but God was above them, and greater than, they, and He would bring good out of their evil. If God were for us, who could be against us? And what could we feel save pity towards those for whom God was not, and who were therefore, most vainly, fighting against Him?
My outward life has been almost as tranquil as my inner life has been happy. I found it easy to earn enough to supply my own simple wants and those of Desiree, who has never proved a burdensome charge to me, or required any care or attendance I could not easily give her. I have had the society of many of my honest and pious fellow-exiles, whom I did not like the less because they belonged mostly to the rank I had adopted, not to that in which I was born. On Sundays and holidays I have enjoyed the ministrations of a faithful pastor, who proclaims, in our own beloved tongue, the gospel of the Lord for whom he has suffered the loss of all things.
At first I used to pay frequent visits to our friends at Greenwich, who always received me with much kindness, and who have given us many proofs of affection, such as procuring clothing for Desirée suited for this changeful climate, and sharing with us the fruits that remind us of our dear Norman orchards and gardens. But of late I have found it wise and right to discontinue these visits, although great part of the brightness of my life has gone with them — indeed, I might have written, because it is so. The fault was not with my friends, it was my own. In the old days of the Chateau de Vaur. I had been, ever since I was able to ride my little pony and to brandish my toy sword, the young knight and champion of Aimée de Vigny. But now, — now that I was no longer a boy, but a man, — it was abundantly evident to all the world, and most of all to myself, that a great gulf yawned between us. She had kept her rank, I had descended from mine. What could Mademoiselle de Vigny have to say to the poor glove-maker Gabriel Vaur?
Had I been possessed of a sober, well-balanced mind, I would have recognized this as a mere matter of course. I might then have worshipped my star in safety at a distance, no man forbidding. But this was just what I failed to do. After I came to man’s estate, every visit I paid to Greenwich plunged me in wild, sweet dreams, as if I saw again in vision the shores of beloved France. I lived upon these visits far too much for the health either of my body or my soul. Nor was this the worst. When, one day, Madame de Vigny told me that her daughter was about to be betrothed to Monsieur — now M. de Lieutenant — de Favre, one of the companions of our flight, I felt that the sun had gone down at noonday, and sky and earth were shrouded with blackness. It was certainly time I should discontinue my visits to Greenwich; and, again I write it, the fault was mine — mine only.
Here, then, I conclude my brief record of the way by which, in my boyhood and youth, God led me. I can bear witness that He has been with me indeed, that He has fed me all my life long until this day, and redeemed me from all evil. He will not forsake me until He brings me to a better land than even La Belle France — a land where fathers and children, brothers and sisters severed here for His sake, shall find each other again, never to be parted more, amongst the spirits of just men made perfect.
Chapter 6.
What Happened Afterward to Gabriel Vaur
ONE fine spring morning, when the seventeenth century wanted yet some three years of its completion, a young man, dressed as a well-to-do and respectable artisan, walked briskly up Ludgate Hill — a busy thoroughfare even then, though it might scarcely have seemed so to eyes and ears accustomed to the bewildering crowds and the never-ceasing roar of the London of today. The solitary unit in that ever-changing throng whom we choose to observe looks about six-and-twenty years of age. He has dark hair; soft, dark brown eyes; clear-cut, delicate features; and especially a mobile, sensitive mouth. His expression is thoughtful, even sad; still, with a glance regardful of present things, he stoops to help a little child that has fallen in the pathway, and he looks well to the safety of the stout leathern purse which he carries, as he has been often warned impressively against city thieves and pickpockets.
Gabriel Vaur had a special reason for looking sad that morning. Before leaving home, he had turned into his landlady’s little parlor to give some directions about Desiree’s comfort during his absence, and remarked casually that his sister did not seem quite so well as usual lately. ‘True indeed, M. Vaur,’ was the answer. ‘An one can see that the poor young lady is fading away. Who could grieve for her, or say it will be aught but a good thing when the Lord is pleased to take her to Himself?’
Gabriel hurried from the room; only the grateful remembrance of long years of kindness kept him silent at words which seemed to him almost heartless and wholly cruel. But what if, for all that, they were true? This was the question he asked himself, while alone in spirit he trod the crowded streets of the busy city. It is a mournful hour for the loving heart when first the foreboding thought forces entrance, and will not be denied, that the long parting is at hand. Nor did it lessen the pain for Gabriel to tell himself that the real parting with Desiree had been more than ten years ago. In his lonely life the new Desiree — the clinging, dependent child; for as such she was to him — had wound herself very closely about his heart, and he felt that without the consciousness of her presence he would be solitary indeed. On the whole, Gabriel Vaur did not much care that day to look forward to the life that spread itself out before him in the future. It was long since he had seen his friends at Greenwich, or even heard anything definite about them. He knew indeed that M. de Favre had gone to Ireland with King William, and it was reported that he had settled there; doubtless, thought Gabriel, with his young wife and the mother with whom she was not likely to part. However this might be, Gabriel felt that his old relations with these friends of his boyhood were broken forever; and he was not yet either old enough or strong enough to attempt the formation of new ones, even had such been possible.
His errand today was simply one of gratitude and kindness. He was under many obligations to his landlady, who since the day he first entered her house — a boy of fifteen, in a foreign land, with a helpless sister to support — had treated him with unvarying kindness. Her daughter was about to be married, and he had for some time been saving his modest earnings to buy a handsome present for the bride.
He entered the shop of a jeweler in St. Paul’s Churchyard, choosing that one in particular because a fellow-exile and a friend of his own had lately obtained the post of assistant there.
Levaysse, however, was absent that morning, and a young apprentice chanced to be the only person in the shop. ‘Well, mussoo, I suppose you are looking for your brother Frenchee,’ said this lad, who had seen Gabriel with Levaysse once or twice before. ‘No use; he is out for the day on some private business of his own. Can I have the pleasure of serving you? Take my advice and buy yourself a good watch. Come now, mussoo, I have some that are very good to go, and right cheap too. Let me just show you. Such a rising man as you are should not be without a good timekeeper.’
Gabriel smiled, for he knew Fred Rostock was bantering him, never supposing he had really come to buy. I am willing to wait a little longer for dreaming? or was he misled by a merely accidental resemblance? Might there not easily be two jewels exactly alike? For, if this were not indeed Aimee’s, it was exactly like it in every particular, even to the number of the smaller pearls, which, he well remembered, as he had paid separately for each. Stay — there was one test yet. In Aimee’s, one particular pearl was imperfect; it had a black stain or shade in it, very slight, yet quite perceptible to a keen eye. He had been vexed with the jeweler about it, and would have had it changed, but there was not time to send it back to Rouen for the purpose. Yes, there it was, just in its old position. Had someone, then, robbed Aimee? or — oh, terrible thought! — murdered her, perhaps?
‘Well, have you looked at the thing long enough yet?’ said the gay voice of Rostock. ‘Faith, and if you were not a Huguenot, I would think you had a mind to run off with it.’
But Gabriel did not hear him. ‘Tell me, where did you get it?’ he asked abruptly, stepping back to the counter. ‘Could any thief’―
‘Thief! Do you suppose we take stolen goods here? Your countryman can tell you all about it, for it was to him the young lady gave it. I wish he was here now. Ah, here comes Mr. Dunscombe himself. That will do nearly as well. Sir, will you please to tell this young man how we came by the jewel he has in his hand?’
The jeweler — a stout, gray-haired man with spectacles — looked critically, and perhaps rather superciliously, at the young Frenchman, doubtless thinking that he belonged to a class not usually given to the purchase of ornaments.
‘I do not know much about it,’ he said a little drily. ‘It was my assistant who took it from the young lady, and promised to try and sell it for her. In my judgment, he might as well have let it alone.’
‘Sir,’ said Gabriel, trembling in every limb, ‘may I ask if you saw the young lady?’
‘Yes and no. I saw a slight, small figure dressed in black. But she wore a thick veil, which she kept down all the time she was in the shop, both while she was talking to Levaysse and while Levaysse was consulting me about the jewel. I gave him leave, though unwillingly, I must confess, to keep it and do what he could, but I told him plainly we would never get the value of it. It is quite out of the fashion. If I were to buy it myself, it would be for the sake of the center pearl, which is a fine one, and which I should reset as a breast-pin. But the young lady did not wish it broken up.’
‘What did she expect to get for it?’ asked Gabriel, his hand on his purse.
‘Do you want to buy it, young man?’ said the jeweler, with an air of surprise.
‘I do, sir.’ The answer was decided.
‘What she expects to get for it is one thing, what she is likely to get for it is quite another. I shall, I think, be doing fairly by both parties if I let it go for five — guineas, let us say, to cover the commission. But that price, I imagine, will scarcely suit you.’
‘It will suit me well, sir,’ said Gabriel quietly, ‘But, unfortunately, I have only three guineas with me today.’
‘I am willing to trust you for the remainder. You Frenchmen, who have come over the sea for your religion, are always honest; and you are, besides, the friend of my assistant.’
‘Thank you, sir; if I knew when the young lady would call again, I would try and bring the money in time. Or perhaps,’ he added, flushing in spite of himself, ‘perhaps she has left her address with Levaysse?’
‘I happen to know that she has not. I heard her say, as she was leaving the shop, “I will call at noon on Saturday.”’
Gabriel took the jewel, paid his money, and turned to go; followed to the door by young Rostock, who expostulated with him in an earnest whisper upon his expensive and unsuitable purchase. ‘Mistress Lucy will not care for that plain-looking little thing,’ he said. ‘’Tis some fine “my lady” who might happen to affect a good old-fashioned jewel of the kind, that looks like an heirloom. Take my advice, and choose instead a big, honest brooch that will tell its price out loud to everyone that gives it a look.’
But where, meanwhile, had Mistress Lucy and all her concerns gone to in the thoughts of Gabriel Vaur? Not till that moment did he recollect that he was coming away without any present for her at all.
‘I do not intend this for Mistress Lucy,’ he said. ‘I must buy her something else — another day. Good-bye, Mr. Fred, and thank you. Tell Levaysse I will come again on Saturday.’
So he passed out into the true solitude of a crowded street. His heart was throbbing, his brain in a whirl. His first idea, that Aimee had been robbed in Ireland — perhaps murdered even — and that some accomplice in the crime had brought the spoils to London to dispose of, returned upon him. But it soon gave place to another — that ‘slight, small figure’ — could it by any possibility be that of Aimee herself? The objection made to breaking up the jewel pointed in that direction; a thief would have been glad to have its identity destroyed. A thrill of sharpest pain ran through Gabriel’s quivering heart and nerves at the thought that Aimee could barter that gift for gold. Had she then so completely forgotten the past? Had she never even guessed the wealth of passionate devotion of which that gift was the sign — devotion that in all the years between had never for one instant grown cold, or strayed from its object? Was it, for her, only a little gold and a few pearls, worth the money these would bring, and nothing more? But then, he ought not to judge her. Even in his pain he would be just. He remembered with softened feeling that she did not wish it broken up. And how could he guess the circumstances that had driven her to an act which looked so strange — he would not say, even in thought, even to himself, so heartless?
It was now Thursday, and he devoted Friday to a pilgrimage to Greenwich. At the old, well-known lodgings, close beside the river, he could only learn that M. de Belmont was dead, and that the ladies had gone away, no one knew whither. Was it to Ireland? The landlord could not tell. Had Madame de Vigny and Madame de Favre gone away before the death of M. de Belmont? The landlord knew nothing of any Madame de Favre Madame and Mademoiselle de Vigny left the place after the death of the old gentleman, whom they had nursed with the greatest devotion. He had no idea whither they went. That was a year ago, and more. Madame de Vigny seemed to be at the time in failing health.
This was all Gabriel could learn; but it was enough to make him doubt that the marriage of Aimee had ever taken place, and also to fill his mind with the most anxious forebodings about her. In good time the next day he went again to the jeweler’s shop, paid his two guineas (an extravagance that nearly emptied his purse), said a few words to his friend Levaysse, and went out and mingled with the stream of passers-by, determined to walk up and down within sight of the shop, until the claimant of the money should appear.
He had not very long to wait. First came two or three sets of customers: gentlemen in scarlet coats, silk stockings, swords and perukes; ladies with fans and farthingales and nodding plumes. Then there was a lull, during which a slender figure, robed in black and closely veiled, glided timidly in. Gabriel’s heart beat fast, for doubt was certainty now. It was Aimee de Vigny.
She was not long in the shop: she soon came out with a quick step, clasping something tightly in her small hand. Gabriel did not hesitate a moment; he came up to her and said, bowing low, ‘Mademoiselle de Vigny, can I be of any service?’
He might have hesitated longer had he foreseen the effect his words would produce. The girl’s slight frame quivered, shook with emotion; she seemed about to fall.
Gabriel drew her arm within his own, and seeing one of the doors of the adjoining cathedral open quite near them, he gently led her within and placed her on a bench. The place was quiet, and the young Huguenot blessed its friendly shelter, though his training had not made him a lover of vaulted roofs and pillared aisles. Aimee lifted her veil, and Gabriel’s heart was wrung with pain as he saw her pale, wasted, mournful face. She tried to speak — once — twice — but the effort was too much for her. Tears came instead of words.
‘Be comforted, dear mademoiselle,’ he said in broken tones of deep feeling, and using of course their own tongue. ‘Be comforted. Only tell me — that dress you wear — is it for madame?’
She recovered herself a little. ‘No, Gabriel — oh no! Thank God, she is spared to me — as yet. But she is very, very ill. It was to get for her the food, and still more the wine, without which she must die — must die, Gabriel — that at last I was forced to part with — Do you know what I have done? Can you forgive me? Can you think how much it cost me?’
‘I know all, mademoiselle,’ said Gabriel, taking the jewel out of his purse and showing it to her. And I will only not forgive you, if you refuse to take it back from me, or to let me do all I can for madame your mother. Oh, Mademoiselle Aimee, how you must have suffered!’
‘Call me Aimee, Gabriel, as in the old days. I am now as poor as you. No, far poorer.’ She leant back and sobbed a little.
‘Why did you not let me know?’ asked Gabriel, with a gentle reproach in his voice.
‘Well, you had burdens enough of your own. But that is not saying all the truth. You know my mother, how brave she is, and how proud. You know her maxim has ever been, Noblesse oblige! She could not see that when we came to this country all things were changed, and that it would have been no shame for us who are noble either to work with our hands, like you, or to accept the generous help charitable people here were willing to give us for Christ’s sake. She has always thought, and she thinks still, that gentlemen may be soldiers, or, if God give them grace, they may be ministers of the Word; but they must do nothing else bread comes by, — while as for gentlewomen, they must only be patient — and starve.’
Gabriel feared the starving had been no figure of speech. He said, ‘You have indeed passed through deep waters. But now, dear mademoiselle — dear Aimee, if indeed you give me leave to say so — your old playfellow may help you, is it not so?’
For answer Aimee lightly touched with her slight wasted fingers his workman’s hand, finely formed as her own, with its thin tapering fingers made all the more supple and agile by long use of the glove-maker’s needle. It was but a momentary, half-conscious gesture, followed by a blush; but it was enough to fill the heart of Gabriel with intense, thankful joy — for it told of trust. Both instinctively took refuge from too deep emotion in commonplace, matter-of-fact details. ‘I tried a little lace-making unknown to my mother,’ Aim& confessed. ‘You know we used to learn it as children in the dear old home. But since she has been ill I have had to be with her so constantly that I could do nothing.’
‘Why did you leave Greenwich?’ Gabriel inquired. He longed to ask about M. de Favre, but he could not bring himself to utter the name.
‘Can you not guess? We had so many friends there, and we could not bear them to know all. When my dear uncle was taken from us, we had changed our last guinea, though he never knew that, thank God. For the expenses that came after we had to sell our jewels.’
‘Had we but known sooner’— Gabriel began earnestly.
‘No use,’ Aimee interrupted sadly. ‘I think no one at Greenwich even suspected our real circumstances. My uncle had lent some of his money upon security which he thought unexceptionable, but unfortunately it proved worthless, and he lost all. Then M. de Favre, whom nothing could have blinded to the truth or induced to forsake us, was gone from us — he was killed in Ireland, at the battle of the Boyne.’
‘Ah!’ said Gabriel, with genuine regret for a brave man, whom he had always liked, ‘that indeed was sorrow upon sorrow. How you must all have mourned him! But, dear mademoiselle, you know it is well with him.’
‘We do indeed; and so does the chief mourner — his poor solitary sister. Gabriel, he was one of the best of men, brave and true, gentle withal as a woman.’
There was something in this praise so calm and natural, so frank and outspoken, that it did not at all displease Gabriel. He said, ‘I always esteemed M. de Favre very highly. But may I ask where you are lodging now?’
‘Not very far from this, in a street they call Drury Lane. I do not like it — it is close and noisy; so different from Greenwich, with the river and the boats, and the beautiful green fields at hand. But at least we can hide our poverty — no one knows us there. Now, Gabriel, I must go; my mother will be wondering at my absence.’
‘You will permit me to attend you, and to offer my respects to Madame de Vigny?’
‘Yes — oh yes, if you will. From you we can have no secrets,’ she answered simply. ‘But I must call first at the wine-merchant’s close by, to pay what I owe, and to get another bottle of the old Bordeaux my mother likes. Strange — is it not? — how God sends us little messages as it were from Himself, to show we are not quite forgotten, even in the darkest hours.’
‘I have often found it so,’ said Gabriel.
‘I used to hate to enter that shop where they sell the wine — the people were so uncivil — they seemed to think I meant to cheat them; yet nowhere else that I knew of could I get just the particular kind of old Bordeaux I wanted for my mother. And, Gabriel, this wine is almost all she cares to take now; if she had it not she would die. It is very hard for the sick and weak to eat here; the food is so different from what we have been used to. I saw the people thought a poor, ill-dressed girl had no right to ask for such costly wine, and then to buy only one bottle at a time, and to carry it away herself. My cup of misery seemed full one day when I could not yes, really could not — find the money, and I had to beg them to give me credit. Only that my dear mother’s very life was at stake, I dared not have gone in there and faced those men with their sneering, supercilious looks. They refused me; and I was turning away almost heart-broken, when a gentleman who was standing in the shop talking to the manager stepped forward as if to open the door for me, and whispered, “Wait a moment, young lady.” I did so; and presently the manager called me back, and told me I might take the wine. I am sure the gentleman spoke for me, and that he has some influence or authority there. Perhaps he is a partner in the business.’
‘I suppose you did not hear his name mentioned?’
‘As it happened, I heard the manager call him Mr. Strongfield. Strong — field, — very English, is it not? Some of these English are so good and generous. He is a tall, pleasant-looking man, with light brown wavy hair. I should know him again anywhere; and, indeed, I have good cause to remember him with gratitude. For, ever since, the people of the shop have entirely changed their manner to me. It is now, “Madame, what can we oblige you with today?” and “You can settle our little account at your convenience, madame,” said Aimee in English, and, thanks to the great relief and joy Gabriel’s presence had brought her, almost ready to laugh. But now, indeed, we must delay no longer. I am so glad to be able to pay at last for that wine. It was to do that, and also for the rent, which must be paid on Monday, that I was forced to the bitter necessity of parting with — something very dear to me for the sake of old times,’ — the last words were a low, hurried whisper.
‘You see God allowed it,’ said Gabriel, ‘just to bring us together again.’
A few steps led them from the cathedral to the shop of the wine-merchant. Here another surprise awaited Aimée. The assistant whom she asked for her account appealed to the manager, who came forward and told her it had been paid already, as he of course presumed by her directions. He handed her a receipt, apologizing for its imperfect form, as he had not the honor of knowing her name.
Aiméé looked quite bewildered; but Gabriel said to her in French, ‘Depend upon it, this is another good work of your friend Mr. Strongfield.’ He saw immediately, by the smile that flitted for one instant across the set, business-like face of the manager at the mention of the name, that his suspicions were correct. Then taking the matter into his own hand, he inquired Mr. Strongfield’s address. ‘That I cannot give you, sir,’ said the manager. ‘He does not live here. He is a partner in an Irish firm with which we are doing business, and I believe he is to sail for Ireland tonight.’
‘Perhaps, however, he may call on you before he leaves the city?’ Gabriel suggested.
‘It is possible, sir; possible, but not certain,’ was the answer.
Gabriel took out his pocket-book, tore a leaf, and gave it with a pencil to Aimée. Should you like to write a note and leave it for him here?’ he asked.
He did not know in the least whether Aimée’s sensitive pride might not take alarm, and suggest an attempt to return the money. But, strange to say, no thought of the kind ever occurred to her. She looked upon this Englishman, who had interposed to help her in her direst need, simply as God’s messenger; and she received his kindness as sent to her by God Himself through him. This was what she wrote: ‘Will Mr. Strongfield accept, for his thoughtful kindness, the most grateful acknowledgments of Aiméé de Vigny?’
Meanwhile Gabriel procured the wine and paid for it, taking this time three bottles instead of one. Then he gave the note to the manager, and they left the shop together.
Chapter 7
The End
GABRIEL did not find Madame de Vigny as ill as he expected. He cheered and encouraged her; and, after a few visits to the wretched lodging in Drury Lane, he persuaded her to allow herself to be moved to better quarters in Southwark. Here he found for her and Aimee a clean and airy apartment, which, through a private arrangement of his own with the landlord, was to cost them no more than the dungeon they were leaving. He made it gay with the flowers he loved to tend and cultivate in his own rooms, and added also many more substantial comforts. In about a fortnight after their first meeting the move was happily accomplished, and his friends were settled close beside him.
These things could not be done without straining his slender resources to the utmost; but he cared little for that, as he had hitherto been more than able to supply his modest wants; and moreover, he was now a kind of foreman or overseer in his trade. What caused him far greater uneasiness was the condition of Desiree, to whose declining health he could no longer close his eyes. Yet, in spite of his forebodings, it cannot be denied that at this time he was very happy. To have Aimee so near him, to see her every day, and to know that he was ministering every hour to her comfort, was enough to fill his life with brightness.
‘M. Vaur grows young and gay, which is what I never saw him before,’ said good Dame Churton, whose pretty daughter Lucy had, we fear, to content herself with a less costly wedding present than had been at first intended for her. Lucy and Aimee soon became very good friends, and helped lovingly to tend Desiree, and to minister to her daily increasing weakness.
One day Gabriel, ever attentive to Madame de Vigny, went again to the shop in St. Paul’s Churchyard to purchase wine for her. He found to his surprise a note lying there, directed to Mademoiselle Aimee de Vigny, but bearing these words on the outside: ‘If the gentleman who accompanied Mademoiselle de Vigny should call here, he is requested to open this.’ Gabriel opened it, of course, and read as follows: —
‘MADEMOISELLE, — What I have done for you is nothing, but I believe it is in your power to do for me a very great service, and that simply by answering a few inquiries. Will you be so good as to inform me, through Mr. Evans, at what time and place I may, with most convenience to yourself, wait upon you for this purpose? You will thus confer a signal favor upon him who has the honor to be, mademoiselle, your very humble and very obedient servant,
‘HARVEY STRONGFIELD.’
‘If you can tell me where this gentleman lodges, I will call upon him at once, to save time,’ said Gabriel, to Mr. Evans the manager.
‘It were well done, sir,’ was the reply. ‘He seems much in earnest about the business, whatever it may be. Indeed, I happen to know it is detaining him here, although he is very anxious to return to Ireland. You will find him in the Strand, No. 116. He lodges with a spectacle-maker named Farran.’
Gabriel hurried to the Strand, much wondering what this Englishman — or happy Irishman — could want with Aimee de Vigny. At first the disturbing thought occurred to him that the pathetic beauty of Aimee’s sorrowful face might have found its way to what was evidently a generous and sympathizing heart, and that he might have to reckon with a formidable rival in this wealthy wine-merchant. But this fear passed very quickly, and his heart grew calm again. Not one word had he as yet exchanged with Aimee which might not have been overheard by the whole world; but there are other ways in which hearts can understand each other, and much of what makes the very life of life ‘goes without saying,’ in the expressive phrase of his native tongue. He knew long before this that Henri de Favre had never been loved except as a kind brother and faithful friend; and he put his hand on the jewel which he wore next his heart, as Aimee had not yet taken it back from him, vowing that when he gave it to her he would ask in return for a word of hope and encouragement.
So thinking, he reached his destination, and inquired duly for Mr. Harvey Strongfield.
A tall, athletic man came out into the small dark passage to meet him, and, leading him into a little back parlor, courteously invited him to be seated.
‘I am the friend of Mademoiselle de Vigny,’ Gabriel explained. ‘I have seen your note. We have reason to be very grateful to you, sir, and I shall be glad to know in what way we can have the honor of serving you.’
‘The obligation is mine,’ said Mr. Strongfield. ‘The generous words of mademoiselle were much more than I deserved. Will you be good enough to tell me whether you also are from France?’
He had seated himself with his back to the light and opposite to Gabriel, at whom he was looking intently.
‘Yes,’ answered Gabriel. ‘I am a Frenchman and of The Religion — a refugee.’
‘Et moi aussi. Ainsi nous sommes frdres,’ said Harvey Strongfield, rising and taking him by the hand. His voice seemed strangely familiar to Gabriel. He found himself again in Caudebec, sitting on a bench in the glove-maker’s little workshop; and then, by a still more mysterious trick of memory, standing beneath the walls of the burning convent whence poor Desiree had been so bravely rescued. He said aloud, of course in French, I might have guessed it, but for your name, which is so thoroughly English. Mr. Harvey Strongfield’―
‘Say that too in our own tongue,’ its bearer interrupted with a smile.
‘Harvey — fort — Chavfort Ah, Hervé Champfort! Est-il possible ‘Quel bonheur!’
‘Monsieur Gabriel de Vaur, c’est possible, et c’est vrai!’
Then the two men, as men of France are used to do, embraced each other with right hearty joy and undisguised affection.
Gabriel’s first connected and intelligible sentence was an inquiry why his friend had changed his name.
‘Can you not guess? — Well, to explain all, I must go back to the beginning of my story. I was fast bound, by reason of my wounded foot, for some weary weeks at that place you wot of, where we were so strangely parted. — M. Gabriel, did you get Mademoiselle Desiree off safely? I never heard any rumor of her capture, so I have always hoped you did.’
‘Yes, she came over with me; she is with me still. But, dear Hervé, she is not what you remember her. Their cruelty had quenched the light of reason forever.’
The horror twelve years old to Gabriel was new to Hervé at that moment. It was some time before he could overcome his emotion, and, at an eager request from Gabriel, resume his story. ‘To my infinite regret, I could not send you your money, which I had, or even communicate with you in any way. I was myself in terrible danger, as my religion could not be hid, and, being a stranger, I was sure to be suspected as a fugitive. But the surgeon and the cure were both kind-hearted men, and stood by me faithfully; the latter, as he said, to give time for my conversion, for which, to do him justice, he worked hard. I read his books and argued with him daily until my foot was well; then one fine moonlight night I slipped off. Near the coast the watch was so strict at that time that I thought it best to turn my face the other way, and make for the Flemish frontier. It gave me a much longer journey, but it seemed my only chance of escape. Thank God, I got over the line in safety (some day, when we have time, I will tell you all the particulars); and, longing to be once more amongst brethren in the faith I made my way to Rotterdam, where, moreover, I thought I should be able to find work. Not long afterward the Prince of Orange began to enlist men for the expedition to England that has given him a throne. I was right glad to join his standard; especially as he was going to fight in the cause of Protestantism, and not against France. There were many of us who did the like. I fought in Ireland under the Prince of Schomberg, and — God prospered me, and gave me favor with those that were set over me.’
It was a long time before Gabriel heard the true story of the gallant exploits by which Hervé had distinguished himself, even amongst his brave fellow-exiles, than whom no better soldiers ever drew sword upon the field of battle. Helve, in fact, had been born a soldier. He continued, modestly omitting much that he might have told, ‘I had pay and prize-money, and, when the war was over, friends invited me to settle in Ireland, where there are many of our brethren, and they are prospering well for the most part, thank God. In the south there is a fair, well-situated town on the river Suir, called Waterford — have you ever heard of it? Quite a settlement of our friends has been established there. We have a church of our own and a pastor; and we are setting up various trades for our honest maintenance and the benefit of our neighbors. Having a little money of my own, beside yours, which lay in my hands, I went into partnership with a brother exile — a wine-merchant. There is a splendid opening for our business, and every facility for carrying it on — anything shipped in France can be landed directly on the quay of Waterford. We hope by and by to get the foreign trade of the south of Ireland into our hands; even now we are making large and quick profits. “With my money,” you will say, M. Gabriel; or at least you ought to say it.’
‘I say nothing of the kind, dear Hervé. But I certainly want to know, what you have not told me yet, why you changed your name.’
There are good reasons. Our business renders advisable an occasional journey to France. Hervé Champfort dares not set his foot on the soil of his native land; he would soon find himself in prison or at the galleys. But Harvey Strongfield, the English merchant, may come and go without risk. Here is a precious opportunity of ministering to the necessities of our persecuted brethren, and, it may be, of helping some of them across the sea to these lands of liberty, where they can worship God in peace, none making them afraid.
‘So, Hervé, you do not forget our France, and our dear brethren who are still in bondage there?’
‘When I do,’ said Hervé, with strong feeling, ‘may my right hand forget her cunning! But, M. Gabriel, we must talk now of your affairs. Ever since I came to this country I have sought for you in vain. It was like looking for a glover’s needle in a wagon-load of hay. I could not even learn whether you had succeeded in making good your escape. Indeed, one of my reasons for coming to London at this time was to make yet another effort to find you. But this too proved fruitless.’
‘I suppose partly,’ said Gabriel, because I dropped the distinguishing De, and went to live amongst our poor countrymen, who earn their bread by the work of their hands. I am now only Gabriel Vaur, glove-maker.’
‘Then you have just one more title to honor than I thought,’ said Hervé warmly. ‘And so, M. Gabriel, you have taken to the glove-maker’s needle, an implement I could never learn to like, and it must have been much more repugnant to you. It seems to me a very noble kind of self-denial. However, to resume — I was going away in despair, when Mademoiselle de Vigny’s little note — signed with the name so familiar to me as that of your friend of whom you used to talk so often in Caudebec — awakened my hopes again. I thought she would be certain at least to have heard your fate. And now, you know the rest.’
‘I do. I am so glad to find you again, dear Hervé.’
‘And I am more glad than words can say. But shall we talk of business now? I know I cannot ask you in a moment, and without consideration, to decide what you would like to do. But I ought perhaps to lay the matter before you, so that you may think it over at your leisure. I can either give you a draft upon the new bank — the Bank of England— for your one hundred and ninety louis, with compound interest calculated from July 1686 to this day; or we can retain the money as capital in the business, and pay you good interest for it, as shall be hereafter agreed upon. Or — and this is the course I would venture to recommend to you, M. Gabriel — I will get you made a partner in the concern, and bring you back with me to the home of my adoption — a fair home, in which God has given me a happy resting-place and many precious blessings.’
‘Tell me, Hervé, are you married?’
A quick flush overspread the handsome, animated face of the young Frenchman. ‘No, M. Gabriel, not yet. But — to tell you everything — a sweet girl, of Irish birth and English blood, the daughter of one of their pastors, has promised to make me, not only the happiest of exiles, but the happiest of men. Oh, M. Gabriel, you must come and live with us! But then,’ he added, his face changing suddenly, ‘but then, perhaps you too — nay, I am sure of it! Even in the old times, when you were but children, we all thought you as good as betrothed to the little Mademoiselle de Vigny. She is lovelier than ever now, though she looks so pale and sad.’
‘Dear old friend, you have guessed my secret. But my path seems hedged about; just now I can do nothing. Come back with me, I pray of you and see her again; she lodges close to us in Southwark. Share my humble room, as I used to share yours at Caudebec; we have so much to talk of together.’
‘Yes, M. Gabriel, I will come with you gladly. I am not without hope of persuading you in turn to come back with me to the pleasant land in which my lot is cast.’
Hervé and Gabriel repaired together to the humble lodging of the latter in Southwark. Much to the surprise of Gabriel, Aimee met him at the door of his room. Keeping one hand upon the handle, she stretched out the other to him with a mournful look, scarcely noticing his companion. ‘Dear Gabriel, do not go in for a moment,’ she said. ‘Let me speak to you first.’
‘Aimee! You here? Tell me what is the matter?’
‘Shortly after you left this morning, Madame Churton sent over to tell me that our dear Desiree was very ill. I have been with her ever since. She is quiet now, and does not suffer; she seems to be asleep. But, dear Gabriel, we all think the end is near.’
The faithful, tender-hearted brother was much moved. He turned his face away and stood for some moments trying to master his emotion, before he could enter the room. Then at last he went gently in, motioning to the others to follow him.
Suffering had passed forever now, and so had sleep, at least the sleep of earth. Desiree’s quiet eyes were open, and there was in them a wistful, pathetic look as if seeking something they could not find.
Gabriel stooped down and kissed her tenderly, ‘I am here, dear sister,’ he said.
‘Yes, Gabriel is here,’ murmured the dying child — the child of six-and-twenty years, whose life had stopped at fourteen. ‘Gabriel here. Father, ― mother, — Louis — at home.’
The watchers exchanged a quick glance of intelligence. For twelve long years she had not named those others, nor seemed to comprehend their fate. But now the light had come to her — the light from the open door through which she was about to pass.
‘Yes, my Desiree,’ said Gabriel. ‘And you too will soon be at home.’
‘Soon at home. Kiss me again, Gabriel — Gabriel and Aimée.’
No word was spoken after that. There were a few hours of unconsciousness, and then the spirit passed gently, almost insensibly, away.
‘She is no more,’ said Hervé, who shared the watch beside her to the last.
‘Not so,’ Aim& answered; ‘she is herself once more.’
‘Life to her was a long sleep,’ said Gabriel, as soon as he could speak for tears, which after all were not tears of sorrow. ‘Now she has awakened beneath the smile of Christ, and her first look of conscious gladness is fixed on His face who died for her.’
‘Nor would she now,’ said Hervé, have suffered, or surrendered, one fraction less for His sake.’
Not much more remains to be told. The faithful pasteur, himself an exile, who prayed over the grave of the martyred Desirée, blessed, soon.
(Missing the last page).