"Flower of a day, that blossom'd but to die,In native earth thine earth-born beauties lie:Not so thine odour, tho' thy stem be riven,It, on the blast that broke thee, rose to heaven."
"Flower of a day, that blossom'd but to die,In native earth thine earth-born beauties lie:Not so thine odour, tho' thy stem be riven,It, on the blast that broke thee, rose to heaven."
On our return to the inn, our dinner was placed before us. It consisted of some soup and bouilli, some abortive trout, that I believe on my conscience were originally intended for gudgeons, a stewed hare, orcivet de lièvre(which probably was some poor unfortunate cat, for I never could get a sight of the hare-skin), and some plates of vegetables. I saw by this that our bill would be high; for, on the same principle that "he ne'er forgives who does the wrong," an innkeeper who serves you ill always makes you pay for it.
I was not disappointed. Our charges, next morning, were at least twice as much as by any reasonable calculation they ought to have been; and, consequently, I struck off one half of the bill. The landlady vowed that she would not take one sous less than she demanded, and I vowed that I would not give her one sous more than I offered. She swore I should not quit the house till I had paid it. I informed her that the carriage was at the door and that I was going. She said she would go to the maire. I told her to make haste, then, for that I was in a hurry. She flew into a violent passion, and I affected to fly into another. I counted out the half of the bill upon the table; she took it up and put it in her pocket, and the matter being thus settled, we both recomposed our faces. I wished her good morning and perfect health; and she expressed hope, that if we again passed through Bernal, she should havele plaisir infini de notre pratique.
Happy, happy, happy people! An English landlady would have growled for two hours afterwards.
There is more of thebeau idealof cottage life in France than in England. One meets with more of those bright and striking points of original character among the peasantry of France in a day, than one would find in England in a month. All over the world cultivation has put nature out of fashion, and man is all the smoother but none the brighter for it; but, however, it sometimes happens that in our wanderings we find little bits of pure unadulterated nature that are worth any price; and when I meet with such, I ask Memory to pick them up and put them in her pocket for me. It is true that she, careless slut, often drops what is good, and hoards up what she had better cast away; but still I have a little treasure in her hands, consisting simply of bright pictures that I have gathered together as I journey on. Things seen for a moment and passed by. A group of children playing; a girl drawing water, a striking effect of light and shade, or the passing away of a storm, will give me more pleasure and remain longer upon my memory than all the graces and attitudes even of a Taglioni.
In passing through Normandy alone, a painter, who could sketch rapidly, with taste and imagination to guide him, might soon fill his portfolio with groups that would set him above all the artists in the world. I remember as we drove out of Bernay, there was a girl standing at the window of a cottage by the road-side; she was young, and her form had all the loveliness of youth, the wild grace of nature, and the richness of simplicity. Her hands leaned upon the bar of the window, and she seemed watching the progress of a cloud that flitted across the blue sky, with her eyes raised towards heaven, and her brown hair falling back from her face. She was worth all the Magdalens that ever were painted.
The gardens of the Guinguettes, too, are prodigal of undisguised nature. In the evening of a summer Sunday, all the youth of the neighbourhood assemble there to dance away the afternoon, and all is harmony and joy. Nature has full room to act, and she always does it beautifully.
I know not well which is the cause and which the effect--whether a French peasant's peculiar amusements render him a better tempered animal than an Englishman of the same class, or whether it is a disposition naturally gentler, that leads him to those amusements. Certain it is, that his amusements are generally milder in their kind, and more good-humoured in their execution than an Englishman's; and I cannot help thinking, that if our country magistrates would but encourage and revive the nearly forgotten rural sports of our ancestors, many good feelings which have been lost; would come back with those innocent pastimes.
The object of all mankind is happiness; and the object of all good lawgivers is to secure the greatest possible portion of it to those they govern. Every thing that renders the people gentler among themselves, renders them happier; and there is no greater bond of union amongst a whole nation, than general attachment to ancient customs.
In France, every thing is done for the people's amusement. The government aid it; the magistrates encourage it; and the rich, look on with pleasure, while the poor enjoy themselves. It unites all classes of society by the strongest ties; and while an Englishman sits drinking before a public-house, abusing the laws he neither knows nor understands, a Frenchman dances away his hours, contented with himself and all the world.
Among the lower classes of the peasantry (I do not, speak of the inhabitants of cities) the evils of the revolution were little felt. The conscription was the only thing that affected them; and whilst almost every other class lost the better part of their character they remained the same. They may be savage in their resentments, but it needs real injury to excite them; and in their amusements they are mild, cheerful, and orderly. At the fairs and at different fêtes, where there are various sports and prizes supplied at the expense of government, it is truly astonishing to see the general good humour and regularity which prevails; and, in spite of the gensdarmes who stand looking on like the ushers of a school on a half-holiday, nature is not at all checked to produce it. On the contrary, she is always breaking forth; and it is the very spirit of happiness which she breathes, well pleased with herself and with all around her. I have often wished for the pencil of a Wilkie to sketch the faces, I have seen grinning at a merry-andrew, or watching the efforts of a poor devil on a tourniquet,[3]striving to keep the unsteady machine on the balance, till he arrives at the prizes within his view; and just when he fancies that he grasps success, round flies the tourniquet and down he falls amongst the people--and what then? Why the people laugh, and he laughs too; and takes his place at the end of the file to try his luck again.
I once saw a country girl watching her lover trying hard to win a tempting mouchoir, which no doubt they had both determined to be the finest thing in the world to deck her out next Sunday at mass. She looked timidly round her every now and then, as if she feared that the eagerness she felt in her heart should shine out before the world, and then she fixed her eyes upon her lover again, while he got on by degrees, till at last the mischievous tourniquet turned him and his hopes upside down together. The long compressed breath burst from the girl's lips in a deep sigh, but the lad gave a gay look through the crowd, and a smile to where his mistress stood, as much as to say--"I am not beaten yet;" and took his place again. But there were half a dozen to try their fortune before him; and as they came nearer and nearer the poll on which the prizes hung, he regarded them anxiously; and I could see that it was not he hoped they would fall, but that he feared they would take the very mouchoir he had fixed his heart upon. I do not know why, but something had made me determine that one way or another the girl should not go away without a mouchoir; and so now, having an interest in the matter, when it came to his turn again I watched him as eagerly as any one. But he managed well, and proceeding slowly and cautiously came near the prizes, gave a spring at the mouchoir, and brought it to the ground. In the triumph of his heart he could not help holding it up to his mistress, which called a laugh from the people. But it mattered little; the girl paid for her mouchoir with a blush; and taking the arm of her lover walked away as happy as a princess--nay a great deal happier.
And all the rest is leather and prunella.
As we rolled on at a very tolerable pace, towards le Mans, we met a troop of conscripts on the road; forced from their homes, torn from all early and dear associations--and there they were, as gay as larks, singing and laughing till the welkin rang. Yet the French people do not like the conscription. The government of Napoleon had become intolerable from it; and the irksome taxes comprised under the title ofdroits réunis, was another source of discontent. It is a very general mistake to suppose that words are merely the representatives of ideas, when every day experience shows us that a change in words is often of much more consequence than a change in things. The Bourbon family, on their restoration, promised that theconscriptionshould be abolished, and that thedroits réunisshould no longer exist; and consequently their names were expelled from the catalogue of government terms: but as it was found absolutely necessary that the king should be supplied with soldiers, and the state with money, the name ofjeunes soldatswas substituted forconscrits, andcontributions indirectesfor that ofdroits réunis. This proved highly satisfactory to all; and there were only a few weak-minded individuals, who took snuff, and pretended that, in reality, things remained just as they were.
We rolled on.--One little act of kindness, one smile from a warm and benevolent heart, is worth all the cant and politeness in the world. It was a changeable autumn day, and as we came to the top of the hill which overlooks the rich valley of Gacé, a dark heavy storm, which had obscured the sky for more than an hour, suddenly broke away, and left the whole scene beaming in light and loveliness. My friend was much fatigued, and as we were about to change horses here, we agreed to stay and dine. The post-house was the inn, and, on driving up to the door, a fine portly old man, and two black-eyed blooming girls, came out to greet the travellers on their arrival with so much frankness and good-nature in their faces that, had we been travelling on life and death, we must even have stayed to dinner there. The first room in all Norman inns is the kitchen, and thither Monsieur Butet led us, and introduced us in form toMadame sa femme, who was the counterpart of her husband--the same age and size for a woman as he was for a man, with the same look of hilarity and health, and the same frank open countenance that bade you welcome before she spoke. Every thing, too, around them was clean and neat, and bespoke a family of cheerful regularity. My feet were very wet with getting in and out of the carriage to pay the postboys, so the two girls took me under their special protection, and setting me by the side of the large chimney, blew up the fire to dry me, while Madame Butet got, the dinner ready, and her husband showed my friend to a room where he could lie down. I will not say they were civil--civil seems a mercenary word--they were kind.
At dinner they gave us the best of every thing they had; and if we required any little change, it was done with alacrity and good humour. The two girls served us, and laughed and talked, and showed their white teeth, as if they had known us for a hundred years; and the father came in to ask if we had every thing we wished. After dinner he begged to know if he should put to the horses, for, if we intended to go to Alençon that night it was growing late; but we told him that we intended to spend the night with him. He made us a low bow, and said that we did him too much honour, that his was a poor, little inn, and they had nothing to offer us but good will. Thebourg, too, had nothing curious or interesting to amuse us, he added; yet he must say, that though he had visited many places, he had never seen a sweeter valley, or a neater little town than Gacé.
The next morning was market-day, and before the windows we had all the women of the country round, in their high white caps and bright gowns either of blue or red. Amongst other commodities, one which had a great sale was the sabot, or wooden shoe; and Mademoiselle Butet advising me to buy a pair to put on in getting out of the carriage, I begged her to send for some to let me see. When they came, she tried them on for me herself, showed me how to wear them, chaffered the vender down five or six sous in the price, and carried them off to show her father what a pretty pair of sabots she had bought for Monsieur.
We had every reason to be contented at Gacé; we were well lodged, and fed, and treated, and the bill was but a trifle. It contained only one word--"bonne chère," good cheer; and was not more simple than the people themselves.
I was almost afraid that some little thing might lower these good souls in my opinion; but no, it went on to the last in the same kind, good-humoured, unpretending way. They had welcomed us like friends, and so they bade us farewell; and coming all out to the door, they wished us a pleasant journey, and many happy years, and looked after us long as we drove away.
Several circumstances amused me much in passing from Alençon to le Mans: but I gradually got tired of my position, and was not at all sorry when the carriage drove up to the inn. It was a cold, cheerless, drizzly night, as one could wish for; and as I hate to take the worst view of a place, by looking at it through a mist of any kind, I turned my eyes obstinately towards the large arched entry of the inn, without regarding whether the town was black, white, or gray. There was, a little sort of bureau on the left hand, and at the door was standing one of the most interesting beings I ever beheld. It was altogether a picture we seldom meet with. The light fell sideways, and showed as beautiful a face as any in the world, in that deep relief of light and shade which Rembrandt only knew how to manage. It was very fair, and very pale; the hair was simply braided on the forehead under a cap shaped like a nun's; and the long dark eyes, as they were turned towards the spot where we stood, caught the light, but seemed more to absorb than to reflect it. There was a degree of quiet peace in the attitude, and a tranquil calmness in the countenance, which expressed a thoughtful mind, and a gentle unperturbed spirit, better than any eloquence could have done it; and the silver cross which hung by a black ribbon round her neck and rested on her hand, seemed to point out more particularly the bent of her thoughts. I know not why (for I never scrutinize my motions), but as I passed by, I instinctively pulled off my hat. My companion was equally struck with myself; and one of our first questions went to obtain further information. "She was daughter (they told us) of the mistress of the house, and intended to becomereligieuse."
I asked if there was any reason. Perhaps some sorrow had given her mind that bent--some disappointment of that kind which rests on woman's heart like a blight, till the whole tree withers? but they told us no; that she had always been thus. She was, it seems, one of those calm, quiet spirits, which are as strangers in the midst of the busy world, taking no part in its cares and its joys, and looking sorrowfully upon all the evil that is done and suffered, She was very good, the people said, and very charitable, and every body loved her; and for the moment I felt a degree of grief that her heart had never met any one that was worthy of its affection. But no, it was better not; for love is but a brighter name for pain; and God forbid that a spirit which turned towards heaven, should be weighed down by any of the passions of earth.
In the evening I missed my friend for half an hour; and when he rejoined me, "I have been talking with our nun," said he, "over the fire." But I begged him not to tell me any thing about it. "I would not have done it for the world," said I.
"Why not?" demanded he:--and as some one else may ask the same question, and think I meant differently from that which I did, I will give the reasons now, as I gave them then. I would not have done it for the world; for I never like to compare the paintings of fancy with the originals. Realities are seldom the pleasantest parts of life. Hope, memory, and, even enjoyment, are more than half imagination. Every thing is mellowed by distance; and when we come too near, the airy softness is lost, and the hard lines of truth are offered harshly to the eye. Half our sorrows are the breaking of different illusions: sometimes they must be broken; but when, without danger to himself, or injury to others, man can enrich the scene before him with ideal beauties, he is foolish to examine minutely the objects of which it is composed. The cottage, with its broken thatch and shining piece of water in the foreground, is picturesque and beautiful in a landscape;--but what is the reality? The dwelling of misery, decorated with a horse-pond! The splendid pageants, that dazzle the lesser children at a theatre, are but dirty daubs of paint and tinsel; and it is the same with the stage of the world. It never answers to be behind the scenes. In life, I have met with but two things equal to what I fancied them--sunrise from a mountain, and a draught of water when I was thirsty.
There is no man on earth, I believe, who has not figured to himself a sort of animal totally distinct from every thing else in nature, and called it in his own mind aFrench cook.
It is, in a manner, an historical character; and from the very nursery we accustom ourselves to picture him with a long pigtail and a nightcap, skinning cats and fricasseeing frogs. But the breed is nearly extinct: I had sought for one of the true race all over France with the zeal and fervour of an antiquary, and long had only the mortification of finding every kitchen filled with plump, greasy professors (who for fat and solemnity, might have occupied any chair in a Dutch university), skimming their dirty saucepans, and mercilessly compounding mutton and beef to supply the cravings of a nation who have nearly abandoned frogs,[4]snails and vipers, to feed upon the same gross aliments as the English. As I have said, much had been my mortification; but there was a reward in store for me, Le Valliant could not have been more gratified when he first met with the giraffe than was I, when, on entering the kitchen at le Mans, my eyes fell upon the minister of the culinary department. It was thebeau idealof a French cook! and had Hogarth seen him, he would have made him immortal.
He was about sixty, and as thin as could be well desired. His complexion wascafé au lait, set off by a pair of small eyes, high up in his head, as black as jet, and sparkling like the charcoal under his saucepans; while his hair, as white as snow, stuck out in full friz, like a powder-puff, and supported a candid nightcap, which, leaning slightly to one side, let the tassel sway peacefully over his left ear.
Whether it was from constantly leaning to the side of royalty (for he had been anémigré), or from some accident, I do not know, but one of his legs was rather shorter than the other. This, however, nothing deteriorated the dignity of his deportment; and when he appeared in the midst of stews and sauces, with his gray jacket, his snowy apron, and his knife by his side, my imagination became exalted: his nightcap assumed the appearance of a wreath; his jacket transformed itself into pontifical robes; his knife became the instrument of sacrifice; theb[oe]uf au naturelchanged to the bellowing victim; the kitchen to the porch of the temple; and I began to fancy myself in ancient Greece, when suddenly he advanced towards us with a smiling air, and placed chairs for us by the fire. "Sit down English gentlemans," said he, in a barbarous corruption of my native language; "sit down, sit down. Oh! I go make you nice dinner. I be in England; I make the kitchen to Lord Salisbury. Do you understand Lord Salisbury?Connaissez-vousLord Salisbury."
What between himself and his English, I have seldom met any thing equal to him. He had all the importance, too, of his profession; there was a gravity in his emptiness, and a politeness in his gravity. When he cooked, his whole soul seemed in the dish; but when any one addressed him, his face relaxed into a smile, and the dish was forgot. The pride of his heart was in his saucepans, which hung up in innumerable shining rows above our heads, burnished like the armour of Achilles, and from those saucepans he produced fare worthy the great Lucullus. Indeed, he was the best cook I ever met; but that is easily accounted for. He had been cook to a seminary of Catholic priests, and quitted it upon some quarrel. The good father directors, soon finding how much their palates lost by his absence, wished him to return; and he showed with no small triumph a letter he had received to that effect. I copied, and give it word for word. The colouring might be heightened, but it is better as it is; and, as a specimen of an epistle from a priest to a cook, it is unique:--
"Mon cher Monsieur, "Paris, 8Juillet1823.
"Voici ce que Monsieur le Supérieur m'a dit de vous répondre. 'Si vous voulez être bien raisonnable, bien gentil, être bon chrétien, vous conformer en tout aux règles de la maison, vous n'avez qu'à revenir au plus tôt. Je ferai votre affaire.' Voilà ses propres paroles.
"Je me réjouis de cette heureuse nouvelle que je vous apprends. Je dis que c'est pour vous une heureuse et très-heureuse nouvelle, car où peut-on être mieux que dans une maison où, si l'on veut, l'on peut se sanctifier si facilement et mériter le bonheur du paradis? Venez donc au plus vite, venez dans ce saint séminaire, où vous vous rendrez digne du ciel, j'en suis sûr. Je suis avec amitié votre très-devoué, "Jean-Baptiste C----."
"P. S. Je me porte beaucoup mieux."
If our landlord supplies us with beef and with fish,Let each guest bring himself, and he brings the best dish.--Retaliation.
If our landlord supplies us with beef and with fish,Let each guest bring himself, and he brings the best dish.
--Retaliation.
The table d'hôte of the Boule d'Or at le Mans was like anolla podrida. There was a little of every thing; all the odd ends and scraps of society bashed up in one dish. Next to me, on the left, was an old noble, Grand Cordon of one of the orders of merit, who had come to put his son to the college at la Flèche. He had seen much of the world--had been an emigrant and a wanderer. There were the traces of many sorrows, dangers, and cares, on his countenance; but if ever the heart finds an interpreter in the eye, his had not been hardened by the trials of life. He had that sort of urbanity in his face, which probably in youth had been accompanied by a gayer and a quicker spirit, though years had left nothing but the calm placidity of demeanour, which, if it does not spring from benevolence, at least appears to do so.
On my other hand was a young travelling linen draper--a good example of French education. He had been brought up at a college, but that had not spoiled him for trade. He would talk with equal learning of Horace and cambric, and spoke as scientifically of the measurement of angles as the measuring of ribbons. He had scraps of Latin and samples of cloth, and added, moreover, a political system, which was certainly of his own manufacture. Neat my friend sat a very elegant old man, with a long-waisted Windsor gray coat, and ruffles, in the mode of 17--, to his shirt, which peeped timidly out from under the cuffs of his coat, like a ci-devant ashamed to show himself amongst the upstarts of fashion. They were kept in countenance, however, by a powdered wig, with two long rows of curls on each side, and a tapering pigtail that, like a ship, furrowing its way through the sea, marked the coat with a white track all down the centre of his back. Towards the end of the meal, a priest, newly arrived, came in with his servant, and they both sat down to table together. Each was as dirty as can well be imagined, but the master was, in this respect, pre-eminent. Nature had kneaded him with a round, fat, copper-coloured face, which had evidently little acquaintance with soap and water, and his black rugged beard apparently went from Sunday to Sunday without the touch of innovating steel. His hands, which probably fate had originally designed for pig-driving, were now as dirty as if they still followed that employment, and these he thrust unmannerly into the dish, without vouchsafing a word or a look to those around him.
It is the poetry of life to see a man superior to his station, and rising above his fate; but it is distressing to find the station thus degraded by the man. However, he and his servant sat together; and talked together, and ate together; and, most probably, the servant would have been very ill pleased if he had dined on meaner fare than his master. A Frenchman of this class can live upon any thing. If he cannot get better, a galette and butter-milk, or soupe maigre and a beurrée, will content him. But, if they be within reach, two services and a dessert are not at all too much for him. An Englishman of the same rank never aspires to more than a piece of meat and a mug of ale; but he must have that, or he cries starvation.
The French have a kind of irritable jealousy towards the English; which sometimes makes them forget their general politeness; Give them but a civil word, make the least advance, and they receive you with open arms; but show them that cold reserve, with which an Englishman generally treats all strangers, and every Frenchman's hand is on his sword.
I believe we had been rather silent during dinner, but the young traveller on my right soon commenced snarling against the English. He began about manufacturers, as something in his own line; saying that we pretended to rival the French, but if we lowered our duties we should soon find how far we were surpassed by the taste and elegance of French productions. The émigré on my right, said that he was not quite convinced of that. The superiority of our machines, the industry of our population; and the vastness of our resources, he said gave us infinite advantages over every competitor; and he was afraid that France would be obliged to call forth all her energies before she could equal us, without thinking of going beyond.
The gentleman in the ruffles observed mildly, that England must have a very unproductive climate. He had lived long, he said, upon the coast of Brittany, and remarked constant boat-loads of fruit, vegetables, and eggs, embarked for England. The fruit and vegetables he could understand; for that entirely depended upon the atmosphere, but he could not imagine why we had no eggs. I replied that it was, probably, because our hens being naturally of colder constitutions than the French fowls, had a greater penchant for celibacy.
"The truth is," said the old nobleman, "that those who have never been in England, do not know what England is. Her productions are perfectly capable of supplying her population, but her immense wealth giving her the means of excess, she is not content with what she absolutely wants, but drains other countries of their necessaries to furnish her with luxuries, and the least check throws the burden on the lower orders.
"True," said the young traveller, "England is glad enough to drain other countries; and without doubt, she now only proposes to open her ports, to overburden us with her useless gold, in exchange for our substantial commodities. England talks of her liberal policy, but it is her own interest only she consults, and would gladly ruin the world to enrich herself with its spoils."
There was something very warm came rising into my cheek, but the old emigrant made a slight inclination, as much as to say, "let me answer him," so I said nothing.
"You are very wrong, sir;" replied he to the young man. "You are wrong, and unjust. At a period too unhappy to France for a Frenchman willingly to recal, did England take any unhandsome advantage of her position? Who would have refused her, if she had demanded ten times more than she required? And since then, of what has she defrauded the nations? Of what has she robbed the world? Her only object has been to guard and protect her commerce which, is her existence; and this she has scarcely done as much as her able policy and successful arms gave the title to expect, and the power to exact. So much for her government; now for her people. No one shall say one word against them before me. When I was an exile and a wanderer, without a country, and without a friend, the English received me, protected me, supported me. The nation gave me the means of existence, and individuals made that existence happy. France is the country of my youth and of my love: in my young days I drew my sword for her, but have never unsheathed it against her. France shall have my bones when I die, and my affection while I live; but England shall ever have my gratitude, and Englishmen my esteem."
He spoke, and the fire that had animated him, passed away, and left his countenance as mild and tranquil as it had been before.
At Tours I parted from the friend who had hitherto accompanied me, as he intended to visit Blois and Orleans, while I was bent upon wandering awhile in Brittany, which to my mind, filled as it was with the memories of La Vendée and of the war of loyalty was quite a new land of romance. To Rennes I first bent my steps, and there accidentally made some acquaintances who proved very serviceable in directing my steps aright to the various places of interest in the province. I shall not, however, pause to narrate all my excursions, as I am not writing an itinerary of Brittany--though to say the truth I know few parts of the world which present more points of interest. There is a frankness and good humour, too, about the people, which is very agreeable. They want perhaps a part of the refinement of the Parisians; but they make up in sincerity for all deficiencies in polish. I cannot, indeed, say that their morality is very rigid, nor can I boast that while I remained amongst them I avoided the ordinary errors into which youth and inexperience are but too apt to fall. The thought of Emily Somers, however, as well as still holier thoughts, kept me from any very reprehensible conduct, and I took care by constantly writing to her to prevent her from fancying that I had forgotten her even for a moment.
I had been absent from England between four and five months when some occurrences took place which must be mentioned. After various expeditions to different parts of the country, I was thinking of turning my steps towards my native land, and had returned to Rennes with that view, when I was again called back half way to Nantes by a tale which I may call
There is, in a wild and unfrequented part of Brittany, a small farm-house, which I was now led to visit with as much reverence as many a devout worshipper has felt, at the shrine of his saint. It is situated at the distance of about a league from the small town of Nozay, and is within sight of a solitary windmill on the hill beyond that place, called theMoulin à vent de Bolhalard. Around it are about thirty acres of arable land, sheltered by the slopes that sweep down towards it on three sides; but beyond that little patch of cultivation, the hills around are, as every one knows who has visited that part of France, covered with heath, which, on the table-land at the summit, ends in the sandy unproductive sort of track calledlandes. It is a bleak and desolate scene, and, even when the sun shines in all his summer brightness, its aspect is wild and solitary; but when, as is frequently the case, the sky above is covered with cold gray clouds, or when the chill easterly wind sweeps over the unprotected plains, there are few places that I know which offer an appearance of more cheerless dreariness than the farm of Dervais.
Early one day in the beginning of the month of June, and in the year 1794, the old farmer, who at that time cultivated the little spot of productive land which I have mentioned, and fed his sheep upon the neighbouring heaths, stood before his door gazing up towards the sky, as if to ascertain what sort of weather was to predominate during the day. I may be permitted to describe him; for the name of La Brousse should live for ever, where honour, and good faith, and generous devotion, are valued amongst men. Like the generality of Breton peasants, he was tall, bony, and powerful, with long arms and muscular hands, which, even at that period of his life, would have performed many a feat of extraordinary strength. He must have been more than sixty years of age, and the long curling locks of white hair, which, like every Breton, he preserved with reverential care, hung down upon his shoulders, and over a forehead high and broad as that of Milton. Persons who had been accustomed to mark the features common to particular counties in England, would have taken him for a Cornish man, by the peculiar cast of his countenance; and it is more than probable that his blood was derived from the same stock. His eye was of a clear dark blue, beneath a marked overhanging eyebrow; and his long straight pose, and rounded chin, offered traces of beauty which had survived even the ruinous effects of time. His dress was simply that of a peasant of the province. The expression of his countenance at the time I speak of, was stern and melancholy. Well, indeed, might it be so; for, in the Vendean wars of the preceding year, his two sons, his only children, had fallen in fighting gallantly against the revolutionary tyranny; and, childless in his old age, he stood and saw his country each day accumulating crimes, and drowning her best hopes in blood.
As he paused before his cottage-door on the day I mention, and gazed up to the sky, he saw nothing but thin gray clouds drifting slowly over the wide awful expanse of heaven, promising one of those warm wet days which so often serve as a link between the summer and the spring; but, when he let his glance sink to the side of the hill, he beheld a young woman descending towards him by a little path, which traced its wavy line amongst the heath and fern, till both heath and fern were lost in aridlandesbeyond.
"Some one seeking milk," he thought at first, as his eye rested on the figure; and he was about to turn into his house, to see whether he had any to spare; but there was something in the form of the approaching visitor, something in the step and in the air, that made him pause, and watch her coming more closely, while a strong expression of anxiety gradually, appeared in his straining eye.
She came on rapidly, as if in haste, and yet with a wavering and uncertain step, like one much wearied. When nearer, too, he saw that her clothes were not those of a peasant girl, and through haste, and terror, and fatigue, there shone an air of grace and dignity not to be mistaken. La Brousse took an involuntary step to meet her; and, as if he understood it all at once--as if he saw that she was the wife or child of some Vendean chief, flying from the revolutionary butchers--the words, "Poor thing!" were murmured ere he asked a question.
When she came near, the spectacle she offered was a sad one. She was young and graceful, and exquisitely beautiful, but weariness, sorrow, and terror were written in every line of her countenance, while her dress was soiled and torn, and dabbled in many parts with blood. Her story was soon told; for none of those attached to the cause of royalty, even in the times of the bitterest persecution, ever hesitated to rely entirely upon the loyalty and honour of the Breton peasantry; so that Clara de la Roche, the daughter of the unhappy marquis of that name, who fell in the route of Mans, related her tale to the ears of the good farmer La Brousse, with as much confidence, of sympathy, protection, and good faith, as if she had been relating it to the ears of a parent. After her father's death she had followed the fortunes of her only brother, through all the horrors of the Vendean war, till he also had fallen about a week before; and from that time she had wandered on, without companion or home, friend or protector, through a country in which famine was fast treading upon the steps of war; where her only food was obtained from charity; and where some of the many horrible deaths which had been invented by the diabolical cruelty of revolutionary tyranny, awaited her the moment she set her foot within the walls of a town. Good old La Brousse had once given shelter to her brother after some unsuccessful effort in the royal cause; and she had now sought him out, and besought him with tears, to let her live even as a servant in his house, till some of those dreams of triumphant loyalty, in which the Vendeans still indulged, should at length be realized.
The old man led her in as tenderly, and as affectionately, as if she had been his own child, set before her all his cottage afforded, soothed her sorrow, and spoke the sweet hope of better days, and happier fortunes. "She could not act as his servant," he said, looking at her small beautiful hands; "for her appearance would at once betray her; but the daughter of a noble royalist, and especially a child of the house of La Roche, should never want bread or protection, while old La Brousse could give it, though the very act might cost his life. Mademoiselle, however, must consent to lie concealed," he added; and he showed her how the back of one of thosearmoires, which are so common in that country, had been contrived to act as a door to a little room beyond, which was lighted by a concealed window, and which, though extremely small, was neat and comfortable. Here, La Brousse told her, she must spend the greater part of her day, as her brother had done while he lay concealed in his house; but that, at night, when the doors and windows were all closed, she might come forth in security, and towards dusk might even venture to take a walk across thelandes.
The prospect of such a state of existence would have been horrible enough to most people; but to Clara de la Roche it offered that blessed repose and security--that temporary cessation of terror, and horror, and fatigue--which had filled every hour of her being during the months just past; and with joy she took up her abode in the chamber, which, indeed, was little different from a prison in any thing but the name. While the good old peasant was still in the act of showing her how to open and to close the door at will, a step was heard behind them; and, turning quickly round, Clara beheld a pretty peasant girl, of about eighteen or twenty, entering the cottage; while old La Brousse told her not to be afraid, as it was only Ninette, a cousin's child, who kept his house for him, and who might be trusted as much as himself. Clara had no fears when she beheld a peasant, and she felt too, as most women would feel, that although she might see but little of Ninette, yet there was great comfort in having one other of her own sex constantly near her. The peasant girl too, habituated to such scenes, seemed to understand her situation at once, and came forward to speak to her with much kindness; but the tidings that she had seen horsemen upon the hill, riding about as if in search of some one, abridged all ceremony, and Clara at once took up her abode in her place of concealment.
Scarcely was the door in the back of thearmoireclosed, and the interior of the cottage restored to its usual aspect, when Clara, as she listened anxiously, heard the tramp of horse--to her ears a sound accursed--and the shouting voice of soldiery disturbing the quiet solitude in which she had taken refuge. In another moment they entered the cottage, and she soon found that she herself together with several other royalists, was the object of their search. With breathless anxiety she continued to listen while the whole house was examined, with the exception of the very spot in which she lay concealed. Nor was her fear to end, even when the soldiers had satisfied themselves that she was not there; for, having given the farm of Dervais as a rendezvous to several of their comrades scattered over the hill, the dragoons remained for several hours, drinking, singing, and mingling together in a foul strain, which they called conversation, blasphemy, ferocity, boasting, and ribaldry. At length, however, after many a weary moment spent by Clara in intense anxiety, the soldiers were joined by their their companions; and, mounting their horses, they once more rode away, leaving her to a longer interval of peace and security than she had known for many months.
To the inhabitants of La Brousse's cottage the rest of the day passed in peace. With the old man and his young relative it went by in their usual occupations. To Clara de la Roche it passed in sleep; for grief and fatigue weighed heavy upon her eyelids, and she had not known one undisturbed hour of secure repose for many a long day. She was still asleep, when a light tap on the concealed door awoke her, and the voice of Ninette was heard, informing her that she might venture out of concealment, as the house was closed for the night. Clara now found herself in complete darkness, and had some difficulty in opening the door; but at length she discovered the spring, and issued forth gladly--for, whatever security it may bring along with it, confinement to one small space is never without its pain. The wide kitchen of La Brousse's farm-house was only lighted by one small resin candle; but the eyes of Clara de la Roche were dazzled for a moment, and she was in the midst of the room, ere she perceived another figure besides those of the good farmer and his young relation. It was that of a man of about six-and-twenty years of age, dressed in the garb of a peasant, and with a complexion so bronzed by the sun, as to speak plainly habits of constant exposure and toil. But still there was something in his appearance which at once made Clara de la Roche doubt that he was altogether that which he seemed. It was not alone that his face and his figure were as handsome and as finely formed as it is possible to behold; for impartial nature as often bestows her more perfect gifts upon the children of active industry as upon those of cultivation--and his was evidently a frame inured to toil and exertion; but it was that, with all, there was a calm grace, and easiness of position and of movement which is generally acquired, not given--which springs more frequently from cultivation of mind than from perfection of body--and which is difficult of attainment, even under every advantage of station and fortune.
When Clara entered, he was leaning with one hand upon a large oaken chair, his head slightly bent, and his eyes raised towards the opening door; but the moment he perceived that the steadfast gaze with which he regarded the fair fugitive raised a bright blush upon her cheek, he dropped his look to the ground; and, though there was space enough for all, drew back a step, as if to give her greater room to advance.
Old La Brousse, who saw their eyes meet, and the surprise that painted itself on Clara's countenance at beholding a stranger, instantly came forward to quiet her apprehension, by saying, "My nephew, Mademoiselle!" But though Ninette looked from Auguste to the face of the young lady, with a glance that seemed to claim Clara's admiration for the handsome young peasant, yet she appeared, the moment after, to think that the eyes of Auguste de la Brousse expressed somewhat more of admiration for the fair fugitive than was necessary or becoming. The whole family, however, were kind and gentle towards her, and Clara sat down with them to their homely supper. Ninette was soon all gaiety; but the young peasant was grave, and even sad. Nevertheless, in the course of the evening, he spoke to Mademoiselle de la Roche more than once; and, when Clara retired to her place of concealment, she needed no other voice to tell her that neither his birth nor his education had been amongst the peasantry of Bretagne.
To some persons, who he could be, and what could be his real situation, would have afforded matter for much thought and speculation; but Clara de in Roche settled it in her own mind at once. "He must be one of the young nobility of la Vendée," she thought. "He could be none else than one, like herself, seeking refuge in concealment and incognito from persecution and destruction;" and, of course, a bond of sympathy and esteem was instantly established between her own heart and that of the young stranger.
She saw neither him nor La Brousse, however, during the whole of the next day, though Ninette visited her more than once, and often turned the conversation to Auguste. It is wonderful how keen women's eyes are in seeing into other women's hearts; and although Clara herself was yet scarcely nineteen, and had possessed as few opportunities as any one of judging what love is, yet she was not long in discovering that there was a spark of affection for the young stranger lighted in the bosom of poor Ninette, which she feared, from what she suspected of his real station, might prove hereafter dangerous to her peace. Many were the questions that she asked concerning Auguste's history; and Ninette, with whom the subject was a favourite one, replied to them all, although, at the same time, she thought that Mademoiselle was somewhat too particular in her inquiries. The answers that Clara received, however, were not such as tended to clear away her suspicions. Ninette declared that Auguste came from a branch of old La Brousse's family, which had long inhabited another part of the country, and that he had not been more that ten days at the farm, whither he had come to help his uncle, who found some difficulty in carrying on his agricultural operations since the death of his two sons.
At night, as soon as the house was completely closed in, and all prying eyes excluded, Clara again ventured from her place of concealment; and certainly, if she had before appeared handsome in the eyes of Auguste, she now, refreshed by repose, looked loveliness itself. Clara could not but feel that she was admired; and perhaps, at another moment, the admiration of the young stranger--whose tone, and manner, and language, as well as his appearance, all belied the character he assumed--might not have been unpleasant to a heart naturally gentle and affectionate, and ready to cling to any thing for support and consolation. But she saw, at the same time, that every look which Auguste turned towards her, every word that he addressed to her, inflicted a pang upon Ninette; and though Clara well knew that the passion the poor girl was nourishing could only end in her ruin, if the object of it was base, and in her unhappiness, if he were noble and virtuous, yet her heart was not one willing to inflict pain upon any human being; and she remained cold, silent, and reserved, where, she would gladly have confided her feelings, her sorrows, and her hopes.
During the course of the day that followed, Ninette scarcely came near the place of Mademoiselle de la Roche's concealment; and although, two days before, Clara had regarded it with delighted satisfaction, as the first secure resting-place she had found for long, she now began to feel the confinement and the solitude irksome. Her own thoughts, which were full of painful memories, varied by hardly any thing but apprehensions as painful, were certainly not the sweetest of companions during the long hours of a solitary summer's day, and she would have given much for a book to while away the time. At length, however, night came, and this time it was the voice of La Brousse himself that gave the signal for her to come forth. Ninette was sitting pettishly in one corner of the room, while Auguste stood by the table with his hand resting upon a small packet of books, which he was not long in offering to Clara, as a means of occupying her solitary hours. He did so with the calm and graceful ease that characterized his every action; but there was a light in his eye as he did so, that added a pang to all those that Ninette was already inflicting on herself, and gave even Clara no small pain on her account, though her own heart beat, and her own cheek burned, she scarce knew why.
Clara would fain have shrunk into herself, although the society even of a peasant was a relief, after the long hours of solitude which she had lately passed; but good old La Brousse strove to win her into cheerfulness, by all that simple unaffected kindness could effect; and the young stranger, without attempting to assume the air or tone of a lower station than her own, led her onward into conversation in despite of her determination, by a gentle, unobtrusive mingling of respect and tenderness, in which there was nothing to repress or to repel.
The conduct of Ninette, indeed, acted as a restraint upon all. She sat gloomy and frowning, biting her pretty lips in silence, while old La Brousse chid her, though not unkindly, for her ill-humour; and the young stranger, unconscious of the feelings he had himself excited, gazed upon her with surprise. Perhaps it was Clara de la Roche alone that saw and understood the real motives of the poor girl's behaviour, She did not, indeed, know that from the first hour that Auguste la Brousse, as the young stranger called himself, had set his foot across the threshold of the farm of Dervais, Ninette had determined that he should be her lover whether he would or not. She did not know that he had treated her from the first with cool indifference; nor that Ninette, in order to attract his admiration, had coquetted herself into a passion for him, which had received no encouragement; but she clearly saw that love was at the bottom of the poor girl's heart, and she felt grieved that her presence should in any way give her a foretaste of the disappointment that she was destined ultimately to undergo. Her own heart, however, was clear. She could not but acknowledge to herself, indeed, that the young stranger was perhaps the handsomest man she had ever yet beheld; that his beauty was not alone the beauty of feature, but the beauty of expression also; that he was graceful in person; and that his conversation had a varied power, which carried attention into admiration, and a tone of noble feeling that gave admiration the basis of esteem. But the heart of Clara de la Roche, though kind, and gentle, and tender, was not one easily to be won. The scenes in which she had mingled--the dangers, the sorrows, the privations which she had undergone--had raised her spirit above all lighter things; and the only qualities that could win her love, were those which had been tried by the fiery ordeal of difficulties and perils. Though she was but nineteen, she had learned to distrust imagination, and rely upon deeds rather than appearance.
There was another safeguard, too, to her heart. Her hand, she knew, had been promised by her father to the son of an old and dear friend; and although she had never yet met him to whom she was destined--though the death of her father and brother left her free from all such engagements--yet a touch of the same enthusiasm which inspired the loyalty of her house, mingled with her veneration for her father's memory, and made her set a watch upon her own feelings, lest she should ever be tempted to violate the promise that he had given.
The evening passed, however; and at length, Clara again retired to her place of concealment. Sleep came not near her pillow for many hours; for the pain that her presence was inflicting upon Ninette, grieved her deeply, and she revolved in her own mind the idea of quitting the asylum she had found, and once more seeking an abode where her sojourn might occasion no uneasiness, except such as was absolutely inseparable from her situation. We will not say, indeed, that when she looked into her own heart, she might not there find some feelings that confirmed her in such a purpose. She did not love the young stranger, it is true; for she was one of those who had been taught early to avoid the first seeds of any thing that we do not wish to cultivate. But she would not but acknowledge that he was amiable, interesting, graceful, and handsome; and he was, moreover, the only one so gifted that she was likely to behold, if she remained where she was. She determined then, ere long, to make her way, if possible, to the house of some relations in the neighbourhood of Rennes.