The march was over, the pursuers left behind, and the Count of Morseiul had pitched his tents in a strong position, with some shepherds' huts and one or two cottages and farm-houses in the midst of his camp. A nunnery of no great extent, situated upon a little eminence, was within the limits of his position, and a small chapel belonging thereunto, nearly at the bottom of the hill, and commanding the passage of a stream and morass, was occupied by a strong body of his followers, under Herval and Virlay, while the Marquis du Bar, who had been slightly wounded in the course of that day's strife, insisted upon fixing his quarters on the most exposed side of the camp, where any attack was likely to take place.
No attempt had been made to take possession of the nunnery, as it was only occupied by women, and as the Count was aware that in case of need, he could obtain entrance in a moment. At the same time he could fully depend not only upon the courage and firmness, but upon the vigilance of Du Bar, and he therefore looked upon his small force as completely in security. Provisions, too, had been found in abundance, and the people of the neighbouring country were somewhat better disposed towards the Huguenot cause, than those of the district which they had just left.
His men, however, had suffered tremendously, even in the brief struggle which had taken place with the overpowering force of the Catholics. Of his own troop, not more than thirty men were found capable of action at the end of that day, and, at least, one third of the whole Huguenot force was unfit for service. This was a lamentable prospect, as the insurgents had no points of strength to fall back upon, and had not the leaders been animated by the consciousness of having performed great actions in that day's contest and having held at bay the royal army with a force six times inferior in number, the proposal of dispersing and carrying on the warfare by desultory efforts in the woods, which was suggested in one of their little councils, would certainly have been adopted.
In the mean time, however, the spirit of the men was kept up, and their resolution fortified, by the prayers and exhortations of the various ministers who accompanied the camp; and on going round to the different quarters just after nightfall, the Count found some bodies of the Protestants still engaged in their religious exercises, some just concluded, but all less depressed at heart than he was himself.
When he had done his round, he paused before the door of one of the farm-houses--the best and most comfortable--and dismissing the men who had followed, he turned to enter. There was a slight degree of hesitation, however, seemed to come over him as he did so, and he remained for some moments with his hand upon the latch. He at length raised it, and entered the kitchen of the farm-house, where the family of the proprietor were assembled round the ample hearth, on which was a full supply of blazing wood. At that very moment, speaking to the mistress of the house, was Clémence's attendant, Maria; but Clémence herself was not present, and on inquiring for her, the Count was told that she was in an upper chamber, to which the woman immediately led him.
Albert of Morseiul followed her step by step, and when the door opened, he saw Clémence sitting at the table, with her head resting on her hand, and her eyes turned towards the fire; but with such a look of deep sadness and painful thought, as made his heart ache to see and to know that he could not change it.
"Here is the Count de Morseiul," said the maid; and instantly Clémence started up, and turned towards the door, while the Count entered, and the maid retired. The face of Clémence de Marly assumed two or three different expressions in a moment. There was joy to see him, there was doubt, there was apprehension; but she advanced towards him at once, and the look of love was not to be doubted. He took the hands that she held out to him, he kissed them tenderly and often: but still there was deep sadness on his brow, as there was in his heart, and his first words were, "Oh, Clémence, at what a moment have you come to me at last!"
"Albert," she said in reply, "I have much to say to you. Since I have been here, and seen what I have seen, I have found many excuses for your conduct; and I have learned to think that what I wrote briefly I may have written harshly and unkindly, and to blame myself as much, nay more than you: believing, though I had no time to explain why I could not come at the moment as I could have wished, yet, that I should still have added, such words as might show you that I was yours unchanged, however much I might judge that you had acted rashly, unadvisedly, and unlike yourself. I have determined to tell you all this at once, Albert, and, acknowledging that I blame myself, to shelter myself from all reproaches on your part in your kindness and generosity."
"Thanks, thanks, dearest Clémence," replied the Count, pressing her to his heart; "this is, indeed, balm after such a day as this: but I think, my Clémence, when you hear all, you will yourself exculpate me from blame,--though I fear that the charge of ingratitude which others may bring against me, will never be done away in the less generous minds of the world in general, without a terrible sacrifice. You I know, Clémence, will believe every word I tell you."
"Oh, every word!" she exclaimed; "to doubt you, Albert, were to doubt truth itself."
"Well, then, believe, Clémence," he said, "when I tell you, that till this morning,--till this very morning,--I had not the slightest idea whatsoever that my liberation was attributable to the King. Not only I, but all my domestics, every attendant that I have, my man Riquet himself, all believed that it was through an artifice of his that I had been set at liberty. Had I thought otherwise, upon my word, my first act would have been to fly to Versailles, to express my thanks, whatever my after conduct might have been."
He then explained to her every thing that had taken place, and the mistake under which he had himself laboured throughout.
"What confirmed me in the belief that the whole of Riquet's story was perfectly correct," he said, "was the fact that Besmaux, when he set me at liberty, observed that the order under which he did it, was not quite in the usual form, together with some remarks that he made upon there being no carriage sent for me with the order."
"Alas! alas!" cried Clémence, wringing her hands, "it was my weakness; it was my foolish fears and anxiety, that produced all this mischief. Listen to my tale now, Albert, and forgive me, forgive me for what I have done."
She then related to her lover almost all that had taken place between the King, herself, and Madame de Maintenon. We say almost, because she did not relate the whole; but though Albert of Morseiul saw it, he divined from what she did tell, that there were matters which she was bound not to divulge. Perhaps he divined the important truth itself, and at all events he did not love her a bit the less for a concealment which had no want of confidence in it.
"On the following morning," she said, "at the hour that the King had appointed, I did not fail to be in attendance. I found him writing; but it was soon over, and he handed me the paper, saying, 'There, lady, we have judged the cause that you have at heart as favourably as you judged ours last night. Tell him,' he added, 'when you see him, that--though we cannot alter the strict laws, which we have found it necessary to make, for his sake--we will grant him all that may reasonably make him happy, either in our own land, or in another!'"
"And I have borne arms against him," cried the Count, clasping his arms together.
"Yet hear me out, Albert," continued Clémence, "for the fault is mine. The order was for your immediate liberation. I took it eagerly, thanked the King, and retired, well knowing that it ought to be countersigned by Louvois, and sent through his office. But during the evening before, on the occasion of something that was said, he gave me such a fiend-like look of revenge, that I knew he would seek your destruction, if not mine. I was well aware, too, that in many an instance he has interrupted the King's clemency, or his bounty; and weakly, most weakly, I sent the order without his signature--ay, and without a moment's delay, by a servant belonging to the Duc de Rouvré. Thus, thus it was, that I, in my eagerness for your safety, have plunged you into new dangers,--dangers from which, alas! I fear that there is scarcely a possible means of escape."
The Count looked down upon the ground for a moment, and he then replied, "I will write to the King myself, Clémence. It is very possible that he will not even read the letter of a rebel with arms in his hand. But still it will be a satisfaction to me to do so. I must first get to the sea side, however, in order that I may place poor Riquet in security, for were the tale told and he afterwards discovered, I fear that no tortures would be considered too horrible to punish the daring act that he committed."
"I, too, will write," replied Clémence. "I will write and tell the whole to one, who, though she will refuse at first, I know, to do any thing in our behalf, yet will not fail, calmly and quietly, to labour in our favour, thinking that she owes something to me. I will tell her the whole; I will tell her distinctly, Albert; and if you will procure it for me I will send her even the forged order that you mention, with the attestation of the man who brought it back from Paris."
Albert of Morseiul pressed her to his heart, and she added, "At all events, Albert, we shall be able to fly. We are now not far from the sea; ships can easily be procured, and we may be happy in another land."
Albert of Morseiul kissed her cheek for his only reply: but his heart was sad, and he could scarcely command even a smile to countenance the false hope she had expressed. His own determinations were taken, his own resolutions formed; but he thought it better and more kind not to make them known to Clémence de Marly till the moment arrived for putting them in execution.
While they were yet speaking, the attendant again came into the room to inform the Count that three persons waited below to see him, and on going down he found Riquet, with one of the Protestants attached to the Marquis du Bar, and a gentleman, who appeared to be an inferior officer in the royal service. The two latter instantly stepped forward when he appeared.
"Monsieur du Bar," said the Protestant soldier, "has sent you this gentleman, bearing a flag of truce, from the Chevalier d'Evran. He carries a letter to yourself, and a letter to the lady from Thouars."
The Count bowed to the stranger, and begged to see the letter to himself. It was simply addressed to the Count de Morseiul, and he opened it with some emotion, for it was strange to see the hand of Louis d'Evran, writing to him as from one adversary to another. The style and tone of the letter, however, though it was very short, were precisely as if nothing had occurred to interrupt their intimacy, or array them hostilely against each other. It ran--
"Dear Albert,
"I write to you simply to know whether I am to regard the communication made to me, on your part, by an English gentleman, called Sir Thomas Cecil, as formal and definitive, as I must be made aware of that fact before I can transmit it to the court. I trust and hope that good results may proceed from it: but you must not forget that it is an awful risk. For my part I will do my best to quiet the province with as little harshness as possible, and with that object I accepted, or rather may say, solicited this command. In every respect, however, my duty must be done to the King, and shall be so done to the utmost. You never in your life fought better than you did this morning. Your defence of the heights was quite a Turenne affair; but you made a mistake in your morning movement to the left, which showed me your flank. Perhaps, however, you had some reason for it, for I think there was a fresh corps came up towards the close of the affair. Look to yourself, dear Albert, for be you sure that I shall give you no breathing time; and so God speed you!
"Louis d'Evran.
"Post Scriptum. I find myself called upon by my duty, to require you formally to send back la belle Clémence to her good friend de Rouvré, and to address a letter to her upon the subject of her return."
The Count had read this epistle with a thoughtful and a somewhat frowning brow. It was quite characteristic of the Chevalier d'Evran, but yet there was something in it that did not please him. He turned, however, to the officer courteously, saying,--
"The Chevalier d'Evran notifies to me, that he has sent a letter to Mademoiselle de Marly, and seems to leave it to me to deliver it. I would rather, however, that you did so yourself, if that lady will permit me to introduce you to her, when you can bear her answer from her own mouth. Riquet," he said, "go up and inquire, whether Mademoiselle de Marly will grant this gentleman a few minutes' audience."
A short pause ensued: for Clémence hesitated for some time. At length, however, Riquet returned with an answer in the affirmative, and the Count led the officer to her presence.
"I am commanded, Madame," said the stranger, "by Monsieur le Chevalier d'Evran, lieutenant-general of the province, to deliver you this letter, and to say, that, at any time to-morrow which you will name, he will send a proper carriage and attendants, to convey you back to the town of Thouars, from which he understands that you were forcibly carried away, some night ago."
Clémence merely bowed her head, and held out her hand for the letter, which she opened and read. A faint smile came over her countenance as she proceeded, and when she had done, she handed the epistle to her lover, asking, "What shall I do or say?"
"Nay, I can give you no advice," replied the Count. "In this matter, Clémence, you must act by your own judgment: advice from me, situated as you are now, would bear somewhat the character of dictation. Do you wish me to read the letter?"
"Certainly," she replied. "My mind will be easily made up as to the answer."
The Count then proceeded to read the letter, which was merely one of form; and began--
"Mademoiselle,
"I am urged by Monsieur le Duc de Rouvré, and feel it a part of my duty, to apply to you immediately to return to the care and protection of that gentleman and the Duchess, under whose charge and guardianship you have been placed by the King. Although we are fully informed that you were carried away from the town of Thouars without your own consent and approbation, we feel sure, from the high character and reputation of the Count de Morseiul, though now unfortunately in open rebellion, that he will be most anxious you should return, and will do all that he can to facilitate the arrangements for that purpose. Such being the case, let me exhort you, Mademoiselle, to make all haste to quit the camp of a body of men in open insurrection, and to place yourself under the protection of legitimate authority.
"I have the honour to be,
"Mademoiselle,
"Your devoted servant,
"Louis d'Evran."
The Count returned the letter with no other comment than, "It is strange;" and Clémence paused for a moment, gazing upon the back of the letter, but evidently occupied by deep thoughts.
She then turned to the officer, who had remained standing, and said, "I will not detain you, Sir, to write, as my answer must be merely what the Chevalier d'Evran expects. You will inform him--notwithstanding that it may seem bold of me to say so--that although I was certainly not brought here with my consent, I, nevertheless, am here by my consent; and as I have long been disposed to return to that faith in which I was originally instructed, and have for some time embraced it upon sincere conviction, I cannot consent to place myself in a situation where the exercise of the reformed religion will be denied to me; but must, on the contrary, remain with those who will protect and support me in my adherence to what I consider the only pure and true faith."
"In short, Madam," replied the officer, "I am to tell the Chevalier that you are a Huguenot?"
"Exactly, Sir," replied Clémence; "and that I have been so for some time."
The officer showed an inclination to pause, and to add something to what had been said; but the Count stopped him.
"You are, Sir," he said, "I think but the bearer of a letter; nothing in that has been shown us giving you at all the title of an envoy. You have, therefore, but to bear back the reply which this lady has given."
"And your own, Sir," said the officer, "which I have not received."
"It is as simple as her own, Sir," replied the Count. "Assure the Chevalier d'Evran of my best regard; tell him he may trust entirely and fully to the proposal made to him on my part, to which he alludes, as far at least as I myself am concerned. In respect, however, to what will satisfy the other leaders, who are in arms for the maintenance of their just liberties, and for the attainment of immunity in worshipping God according to their own consciences, he must deal with themselves. In that I cannot, and do not interfere, and have only to support them with my sword and counsels till such time as they have obtained their rights, or are satisfied with any arrangement proposed."
"I shall not fail," replied the officer, "to convey these messages distinctly;" and thus saying, he bowed, and left the room, followed by the Count of Morseiul, who, giving directions that his eyes should be properly bandaged, placed him in the hands of the Protestant soldier who had accompanied him, and of the guard which was waiting without. He then made a sign to Riquet to follow him up stairs, and bade his valet repeat to Clémence de Marly all that had occurred respecting his liberation from the Bastille.
"And now, Riquet," he said, when the man had given a much more straight-forward and decided statement than he usually made, "it is my intention, as soon as possible, to lay the whole of these facts before the King, feeling it due to my own honour to show him that I have not been so ungrateful as he thinks. As the act, however, which you have committed might prove very dangerous to you, if you should fall into the hands of the Catholic party, I shall take care, before I give this account, that you have an opportunity of seeking refuge in another land. I know that all countries are to you alike: and I will ensure that you shall be provided with full means of obtaining for yourself comfort and repose."
"Sir," said the man, with some feeling, "all countries, as you say, are to me alike. But such is not the case with regard to all masters. Please God, I will never serve another but yourself. If you quit the country, I will quit it with you: if you remain, I will remain. I am already--am I not?--in arms against the crown. I am just as much a rebel riding after you from place to place, and every now and then firing a musket when I think nobody sees me, as if I were at the head of the whole business, and people called it the rebellion of Riquet. You may therefore lay the whole statement before the King if you please, and I will myself write down the plain facts, in fewer words than a paper drawn up by a notary's clerk without a fee. I have no fear, Sir, of gathering together upon my shoulders a few more stray crimes and misdemeanours. That does not lie in the way of my cowardice. My neck is thin and long, and whether it be the axe or the cord that has to do with it, it will neither give the cord nor the edge much trouble; while I have always one consolation, which is, that if the experiment of hanging should prove disagreeable, it cannot be tried upon me twice. I will go and get the paper directly, Sir, which the man, Peter, brought back again. I will put down all his sayings and doings, and all my own; and the King, who is said to have a high taste in all branches of skill, ought to declare when he sees the order for your liberation which I manufactured, that there is not a piece of mosaic like it in all Versailles, and grant me a high reward for such a specimen of dexterity in my art."
"I fear, you deceive yourself, Riquet," replied the Count; but the man shook his head. "No, Sir, I do not," he said, "I assure you. All things considered and well weighed, I do not think that I run a bit more risk by this matter being told to the King, than if it never reached his ears."
Thus saying he left the room, and Albert of Morseiul turned to other and sweeter thoughts. "Dear, dear Clémence," he said, gazing tenderly upon her, "you have now, indeed, chosen your part as I could expect Clémence to do, and by the words that you have this day spoken, you have swept away every feeling in my bosom that could give me a moment's pain."
"Hush, Albert, hush," said Clémence. "I know the kind of pain to which you allude. But you should never have entertained it. Love, Albert,--the love of a heart such as yours, ought never to doubt."
"But, dear Clémence," replied the Count, "is it possible for love to be satisfied while there is any thing touching its affection concealed?"
Clémence smiled, but shook her head; and as she was about to reply, a single musket shot was heard disturbing the tranquillity which had fallen over the camp. The Count listened, and his ear caught the distant sounds of "Alerte! Alerte!" followed almost immediately afterwards by a more general discharge of musketry. Clémence had turned very pale.
"Fear not, dear Clémence," he said, "this is merely a night attack upon some of our quarters which will soon be repelled, for I have taken sufficient precautions. I will see what it is, and return immediately."
Thus saying he left her, and Clémence, with a heart full of strong and mingled emotions, leaned her head upon the little table and wept.
Particular orders had been issued by the Count de Morseiul that no offence should be given to the religious feelings of the Catholics: and, in issuing his commands for the occupation of the little chapel at the bottom of the hill, he had directed that the building appropriated to the ceremonies of the church should not be entered, except in case of necessity; the porch and the sacristy being taken possession of, and the piece of consecrated ground around it, which was strongly walled, affording a sort of fort, in which the men constructed huts, or set up their tents.
They were accustomed, indeed, to abide in the forest, and found no difficulty or discomfort in taking their night's rest where they were. Three fine spreading yew trees, of unknown age and immense thickness, afforded a pleasant shelter to many; and wine, which had been found plentifully in the hamlet above, as well as in a little town at no great distance, flowed liberally amongst a body of men who had fought hard and marched long since the morning.
There was a great difference, however, to be remarked between them and the religious insurgents of more northern countries; for though both the sterner fanaticism which characterised Scotland and England not long before, and the wilder imaginations and fanciful enthusiasms of the far south were occasionally to be found in individuals, the great mass were entirely and decidedly French, possessing the character of light, and somewhat thoughtless gaiety, so peculiar to that indifferent and laughter-loving nation.
Thus, though they had prayed earnestly, after having fought with determination in the cause which to them was the cause of conscience, they were now quite ready to forget both prayer and strife, till some other cause should re-produce the enthusiasm which gave vigour to either.
They sat in groups, then, round fires of an old apple tree or two which they had pulled down, and drank the wine--procured, it must be acknowledged, by various different means; but though they sang not, as perhaps they might have done under other circumstances, nothing else distinguished them from any other party of gay French soldiers carousing after a laborious day.
Herval and Virlay, as the commanders of that peculiar body, had taken possession of the little sacristy, and made themselves as comfortable therein as circumstances admitted. They were both somewhat inclined to scoff at, and do dishonour to every thing connected with the ceremonies of the church of Rome; but the commands of the Count were still sufficiently potent with them to prevent them from indulging such feelings; and they remained conversing both over the events of the day, and also over past times, without any farther insult to the Roman Catholic faith than merely a scornful glance towards the vestments of the priests, the rich purple and lace of which excited their indignation even more than many articles of faith.
Several hours of the evening had thus worn away, and their conversation, far from being like that of their men without, was sad, dark, and solemn. The proximity of the convent had recalled to the mind of Herval the situation of her he had loved; and though they talked much of her fate, yet by some peculiar accident, which we shall not attempt to explain, that subject, dark and painful as it was, did not disturb his mental faculties as might have been expected. It produced, however, both on him and on Virlay, that dark and profound gloom, from which actions of a fierce and cruel nature more frequently have birth, than even from the keen and active excitement of strife and anger.
"Ay, and your child, too, Virlay," said Herval: "it is strange, is it not, that we have not yet found her? I should not wonder if she were in this very convent, up here upon the hill. The Count will not surely want you to leave it unsearched, when we march to-morrow."
"It matters little whether he do or not," replied Virlay. "Search it I will; and that as soon as it be grey day-light. My child I will have, if she be in France: and, oh, Herval, how often, when we are near a monastery or a convent, do I long to put a torch to the gate of it, and burn it all to the ground!"
"No, no," replied Herval, "that would not do; you would be burning the innocent with the guilty."
"Ay, true," answered Virlay, "and thus I might burn my own poor child."
"Ay, or my Claire," replied Herval,--"that is to say, if she had been living, poor thing! You know they shot her, Paul. They shot her to the heart. But as I was saying, you might burn your own poor child, or the child of many a man that loves his as well as you do yours."
"I wonder if she be in there," said Paul Virlay. "Why should I not take ten or twelve men up, and make them open the gates and see?"
"Better wait till day," replied Herval; "better wait till day, Virlay. They have thousands of places that you might miss in the night. Hark! some one knocked at the door--Who is it? Come in!"
"Only a poor old woman," replied a voice from without, half opening the door, "only a poor old woman soliciting charity and peace;" and a minute after, with timid and shaking steps, a woman, dressed in a grey gown like the portress of some convent, gradually drew herself within the doorway, and crossed herself twenty times in a minute, as she gazed upon the two Protestants sitting with the gloom of their late conversation still upon their faces.
"What do you want, old woman?" said Herval sharply. "Don't you know that you risk a great deal by coming out at this hour? My men are not lambs, nor wood pigeons, nor turtle doves."
"Oh, Heaven bless you, Sir, I know that," replied the old lady, "and in a great fright I am too: but after all I'm the least in a fright in the convent; and Sister Bridget--when she came to me with her teeth chattering in her head just after the men had come round and knocked at the door, and swore they would burn the place to the ground before morning--she talked so much about my courage, that I thought I had some, and agreed to come down; and then when she had got me out, she locked the wicket, and vowed I should not come in till I had been down to do the errand. So I came quietly on, and through the little gate, and got out of the way of the great gate, because I saw there were a number of fires there; and when I saw a light under the sacristy door, I said to myself, the officers will be in there, and they will be gentler and kinder----"
"Well, and what was your errand when you did come?" demanded Herval sharply.
"Why, Sir," replied the old woman, "we have a young lady amongst us--" Paul Virlay started suddenly on his feet--"and a sweet young lady she is too," continued the poor old nun, "as sweet a young lady and as pretty as ever I set my eyes on, and she told our good lady mother, the superior----"
"What is her name, woman?" cried Paul Virlay, advancing upon the poor sister who retreated before him, but who still, with woman's intuitive tact in such things, saw that she had got the advantage. "What is her name, woman? It is my child! Oh, Herval, it is my child!"
"So she said to my lady mother," continued the good nun, as soon as she could make her voice heard; "so she said to my lady mother, that she was sure that if her father was in the Count of Morseiul's camp, he would come up in a minute with a guard of men to protect the convent--especially if he knew that we had been kind and good to her."
"Where is she?--Take me to her," cried Paul Virlay. "Woman, take me to my child.--I will bring a guard,--I will protect you. Where is my poor Margette?"
"Are you her father, then, Sir?" demanded the old woman. "Is your name Monsieur Virlay?"
"Yes, yes, yes," cried he impetuously: "I am Paul Virlay, woman."
"Then, Sir," she replied, "if you will bring up a guard and undertake to protect the convent, you can have the young lady, only pray----"
"I will take a guard," cried he; "do not be afraid, woman! Nobody shall hurt you. I will take a guard," he continued speaking to Herval, as if in excuse for taking away part of the men from an important post, "I will take a guard for fear there should be men up there, and they should want to keep Margette. The Count said, too, that the only reason he did not occupy the convent was, that he did not like to disturb the nuns. Now, when they ask it themselves, I may well go. You can send for me in a moment if I be wanted."
"There is no fear of that," replied Herval; "go, in God's name, and see your child."
Paul Virlay hastened away, drawing the old woman by the arm after him, while Herval remained behind shaking his head, with a melancholy motion, and saying, "He will see his child again, and she will cling round his neck and kiss his cheek, and they will be happy: but I shall never see my poor Claire, as long as I linger on upon this dull world." He paused, and leaning his head upon his hand, plunged into melancholy thought.
There was a little bustle without, while Virlay chose out such men as he thought he could best depend upon, and then, that part of the camp did not exactly sink into tranquillity, but the general noise of the party was less. There was still loud talking amongst the men, and wine seemed to have done its work too, as in one or two instances, especially near the little sacristy, where the wilder and less tractable of Herval's band had been placed to be under his own eye, the psalms with which the evening had begun had deviated into gayer songs; and he sat and listened gravely, while one of the men near the door carolled to his comrades a light ditty.
SONG.In the deep woods when I was young,Sly the happy, happy sunshine stole.Under the green leaves, where the birds sung,And merry, merry music filled the whole;For Mary sat there,And all her careWas to outsing the linnet,--Dear little soul!Through the long grass, then would I steal,In music and sunshine to have my part.That no one was coming, seemed she to feel,Till the warm kiss, made the sweet maid start.Then would she smile,Through her blushes the while,And vow she did not love me,--Dear little heart!The sunshine is stealing still through the trees.Still in the green woods the gay birds sing,But those leaves have fall'n by the wintry breeze,And many birds have dropped, that were then on the wing,All, all alone,Beneath the cold stone,Lies my sweet Mary!--Poor little thing!
SONG.
In the deep woods when I was young,
Sly the happy, happy sunshine stole.
Under the green leaves, where the birds sung,
And merry, merry music filled the whole;
For Mary sat there,And all her care
Was to outsing the linnet,--Dear little soul!
Through the long grass, then would I steal,
In music and sunshine to have my part.
That no one was coming, seemed she to feel,
Till the warm kiss, made the sweet maid start.
Then would she smile,Through her blushes the while,
And vow she did not love me,--Dear little heart!
The sunshine is stealing still through the trees.
Still in the green woods the gay birds sing,
But those leaves have fall'n by the wintry breeze,
And many birds have dropped, that were then on the wing,
All, all alone,Beneath the cold stone,
Lies my sweet Mary!--Poor little thing!
Herval wept bitterly. It was one of the songs of his own youth, which he had himself sung in many a joyous hour: a song which was the master-key to visions of early happiness, and touching in its light emptiness upon all the most painful themes of thought. The song, the dear song of remembered happiness, sung at that moment of painful bereavement, was like a soldier's child springing to meet its father returning from the wars, and unconsciously plunging the arrow head deeper into the wound from which he suffered.
As he thus sat and wept, he was suddenly roused by the sound of a single musket shot at no great distance, and starting up, he listened, when loud cries from the other side of the chapel caught his ear, and he rushed out. All was dark; not a star was in the sky; but the air was free from vapour, and looking towards the spot from which the sounds proceeded, he could see a dark body moving rapidly along the side of the hill, beyond the enclosure round the chapel. The shot that had been fired was not returned, and hurrying up to the spot as fast as possible, he clearly distinguished a column of infantry marching along at a quick pace in that direction, and evidently seeking to force its way between the convent and the chapel. There was none but a single sentry in that direction--the man who had discharged his musket--and Herval exclaimed in agony, "Good God, how is this? They have been suffered to pass the morass and the stream!"
"I fired as soon as I saw them," replied the man; "but Virlay carried off all the men from down below there, and marched them up to the convent."
Herval struck his clenched hand against his brow, exclaiming, "Fool that I was to suffer him!" Then rushing back as fast as possible, he called all the rest of his troop to arms, and with the mere handful that assembled in a moment, rushed out by the gate through which the portress of the convent had entered, and attempted to cast himself in the way of the head of the enemy's column.
It was in vain, however, that he did so. A company of light infantry faced about, and met his first furious attack with a tremendous fire, while the rest of the force moved on. The sound, however, of the combat thus commenced, roused the rest of the camp, and the Count of Morseiul, himself on foot, and at the head of a considerable body of the most determined Huguenots, was advancing, ere five minutes were over, not to repel the attack of the enemy--for by what he saw, Albert of Morseiul instantly became aware, that, his camp being forced at the strongest point, it was in vain to hope that the King's army could be repulsed--but at least to cover the retreat of his troops with as little loss as possible.
All the confusion of a night combat now took place, the hurrying up by the dull and doubtful light; the cowardice that shows itself in many men when the eye of day is not upon them; the rashness and emotion of others, who indeed are not afraid, but only agitated; the mistakes of friends for foes, and foes for friends; the want of all knowledge of which party is successful in those points where the strife is going on at a distance.
As far as it was possible in such circumstances, Albert of Morseiul restored some degree of order and regularity to the defence. Relying almost altogether upon his infantry, he held the royalists in check, while he sent orders to some of the inferior commanders to evacuate the camp in as orderly a manner as possible, gathering the horse together upon the brow of the hill, so as to be ready when the occasion served to charge and support the infantry. His particular directions were despatched to Monsieur du Bar to maintain his post to the last, as the Count well knew that the forces of the Chevalier d'Evran were sufficient to attack the Huguenot camp on both sides at once.
Such, indeed, had been the plan of the Chevalier; but it was not followed correctly. He had placed himself at the head of the attack upon the side of the convent, as by far the most hazardous and difficult. The officer who commanded the other attack was a man of considerable skill, but he had with him the Intendant of the province; a personage as weak and presumptuous as he was cruel and bigoted: and insisting upon it, that the officer at the head of the troops had made a mistake in regard to the way, he entangled him in the morass, and delayed him for more than an hour.
Had the attack on that side succeeded, as well as that on the side of the chapel, the little force of the Huguenots must have been absolutely annihilated, and had the attack there even commenced at the same time that it began on the other side, the disasters of that night must have been tenfold greater than they proved. As it was, the Count de Morseiul had time to offer at least some resistance, and to organise his retreat. A horse was soon brought to him, and perceiving by the firing on the flank of the enemy's column, that Herval and his men were striving desperately to retrieve the error which had been committed, he called up a small body of horse, and making a gallant charge at their head, drove back some of the infantry companies that interposed between himself and the chapel, and opened a communication with Herval and the men. Giving orders to the officer in command of the horse to make another rapid charge, but not to entangle his men too far, the Count himself rode down to Herval, to ascertain what was proceeding in that quarter. He found the man covered with blood and gunpowder, raging like a wolf in the midst of a flock.
"Herval," he exclaimed, "a great mistake has been committed. A handful of men could have defended that bridge against an army."
"I know it, Count, I know it," replied Herval. "I have been a fool, Virlay has been a madman. I should never have trusted him by himself. It is time I should die."
"It is rather time, Herval," replied the Count, "that you should live and exert your good sense to remedy what is amiss. Do you not see that by spending your strength here you are doing no good, and losing your men every minute? Gather them together: quick, and follow me. We want support, there, upon the hill. The chapel is untenable now. Quick: lose not a moment. Good God!" he said, "they are not charging as I ordered, and in another moment we shall be cut off!"
It was indeed as he said. The young officer, to whom he had given the command, was shot through the head at the very moment that he was about to execute it. The charge was not made; the body which had been driven back by the Count were rallied by the Chevalier d'Evran; the infantry of the Huguenots, which had been guarding the heights, wavered before the superior force brought against them; and by the time that Herval's men were collected, a large body of foot interposed between the Count de Morseiul and the spot where he had left his troops. Nothing remained but to lead round Herval's little force by the hollow-way on the edge of the morass, and climbing the steeper part of the hill, by the road that led to the little hamlet and farm houses, to rejoin the principal body of the Protestants there, and to make one more effort to hold the hamlet against the advancing force of the royalists, till Monsieur du Bar had time to draw off his troops.
Ere the Count, however, could reach the ground where he had fixed his own head quarters, both the infantry and cavalry, which he had left, had been driven back, and, by a terrible oversight, instead of retiring upon the hamlet, had taken the way to the right, along which the other bodies of troops had been ordered to retreat. The royalists thus, at the time that the Count arrived, were pouring in amongst the cottages and farm houses, and when he reached the little knoll immediately behind the house, where he had left Clémence de Marly, he was instantly assailed by a tremendous fire from behind the walls of the court yard, and the lower windows of the house itself. He had no troops with him but Herval's band, and a small body of foot which arrived at that moment to his assistance from the Marquis du Bar, and he paused for an instant in agony of heart, knowing and feeling that it was utterly hopeless to attempt to retake the farmhouse, and enable Clémence to effect her escape. The grief and pain of a whole life seemed summed up in that one moment.
"I will not," he cried, in the rashness of despair, "I will not leave her without an effort."
Herval was by his side. "Sir," he said, "I must not live over this night. Let us advance at all risks."
The Count gave the order, and the men advanced gallantly, though the enemy's fire was terrible. They were actually scaling the wall of the court-yard, when suddenly a fire was opened upon them from the houses and walls on either side. Herval fell over amidst the enemy, the Count's horse dropped at once under him, and he felt himself drawn forcibly out from beneath the dying animal, and carried along by the men in full retreat from that scene of slaughter.
"Here is a horse, Count,--here is a horse," cried a voice near him. "Mount, quick, and oh take care of my poor girl. She is on with the troops before. I have lost you the battle, and know what must come of it."
The Count turned and saw Paul Virlay by his side; but before he could reply the man left the bridle in his hand, and rushed into the midst of the enemy.
Springing on the charger's back the Count gazed round him. Herval's band was all in confusion; but beginning to rally upon the body of infantry sent by Du Bar. The hamlet was in full possession of the enemy: the only means of communication between Du Bar and the troops that were retreating was along the hill side. Albert of Morseiul saw that if he did not maintain that line, his gallant friend would be cut off, and, for the moment, casting from his mind all the other bitter anxieties that preyed upon it, he hastened to occupy a little rising ground, terribly exposed, indeed, to the enemy's fire, but which would protect the flank of his friend's little corps, while they joined the rest who were in retreat. That he was just in time was proved to Albert of Morseiul, by the sound of a load cannonade, which commenced from the very direction of Du Bar's quarters; and, sending that officer orders to retreat directly, he remained, for twenty minutes, repelling every charge of the enemy; and, by the example of his own desperate courage and perfect self-command, seeming to inspire his men with resolution unconquerable. In the mean time the Marquis du Bar retreated before the other body of royalists which had now come up, and having seen his men in comparative safety, rode back, with a small body of horse, to aid the Count in covering the retreat. The royalists now, however, had gained their object; the camp of the Huguenots was in their hands; the slaughter on both sides had been dreadful, considering the short space of time which the strife had lasted; the country beyond was difficult and defensible, and the order for stopping further pursuit was given as soon as no more resistance was made in the Huguenot camp.