The Huguenot Part 32

"Hatreaumont!" said the Count in return. "What, he who was an officer in the guards?"

Herval nodded his head, and the Count went on: "A brave man, a determined man he was; but in other respects a wild rash profligate.

He can have no business for my private ear, that I should be glad or even willing to hear."

"You know not that, Count," said Herval; "he has glorious schemes in view, schemes which perhaps may save his country."

The Count shook his head; "schemes," he said, "which will bring ruin on himself, and on all connected with him. I have rarely known or heard of a man unprincipled and profligate in private life, who could be faithful and just in public affairs. Such men there may be perhaps; but the first face of the case is against them; for surely they who are not to be trusted between man and man, are still less to be trusted when greater temptations lie in their way, and greater interests are at stake."

"Well, well," said Herval, "he will not trouble you again. This was the last day of his stay in Paris, and ere to-morrow be two hours old, he will be far away."

"And pray," demanded the Count, "was it by his advice--he who owes nothing but grat.i.tude to the King--was it by his advice that you were stationed where I found you?"

"He knew nothing of it," said the man sharply, "he knew nothing of it; nor did I intend that he should know, till it was all over--and now,"

he continued, "what is to become of me?"

"Why, in the first place," replied the Count "you had better come in with me and take some refreshment. While we are doing so, we will think of the future for you."

The man made no reply, but followed the Count, who led the way into his house, and then ordered some refreshments of various kinds to be set before his guest from Poitou, examining the man's countenance as he did so, and becoming more and more convinced that something certainly had given way in the brain to produce the wandering and unsettled eye which glared in his face, as well as the rash words and actions that he spoke and performed.

"And now, Herval," he said, as soon as they were alone, "there is but one question which you should ask yourself,--whether it is better for you to return at once to Poitou, or, since you are so far on your way to Holland, to take advantage of that circ.u.mstance, and speed to the frontier without delay. I know not what is the situation of your finances; but if money be wanting for either step, I am ready to supply you as an old comrade."

"I want no money," exclaimed the man; "I am wealthy in my station beyond yourself. What have I to do with money whose life is not worth an hour? I have a great mind to divide all I have into a hundred portions, spend one each day, and die at the end of it.--Holland! no, no; this is no time for me to quit France. I will be at my post at the coming moment; I will set off again to-night for Poitou. But let me tell you, Count--for I had forgotten--if you should yourself wish to secure aught in Holland--and I have heard that there is a lady dearer to you than all your broad lands--remember there is a schoolmaster living three doors on this side of the barrier of Pa.s.sy, called Vandenenden, pa.s.sing for a Fleming by birth, but in reality a native of Dort. He has regular communication with his native land, and will pa.s.s any thing you please with the utmost security."

"I thank you for that information sincerely," replied the Count; "it may be most useful to me. But give me one piece of information more,"

he added, as the man rose after having drank a gla.s.s of water, with a few drops of wine in it. "What was the state of the province when you left it?"

"If you mean, Count, what was the state of the reformed party," said Herval, gazing round with a look of wild carelessness, "it was a girl in a consumption, where something is lost every day, no one knows how, and yet the whole looks as pretty as ever, till there is nothing but a skeleton remains. But there will be this difference, Count, there will be this difference. There will be strength found in the skeleton! Have you not heard? There were three thousand men, together with women and children, all converted at once, within ten miles of Niort; and it cost the priest so much bread and wine giving them the sacrament, that he swore he would make no more converts unless the King would double the value of the cure--ha! ha! ha!" and laughing loud and wildly, he turned upon his heel and left the room without bidding the Count good night.

CHAPTER X.

THE DECISION.

About seven o'clock on the following morning, Jerome Riquet entered his master's room on tip toe, drew the curtains of his bed, and found him leaning on his arm, reading attentively. The subject of the Count's studies matters not. They were interrupted immediately; for a note, which the valet placed in his hands, caused him instantly to spring up to order his horses to be prepared with speed, and to set off for Paris at once, without waiting for the morning meal. The note which caused this sudden expedition contained but a few words. They were--

"Come to me immediately, if you can, for I have matter of deep moment on which I wish to speak with you. You must not come, however, to the Hotel de Rouvre, for though it may seem strange in me to name another place to meet you, yet you will find with me one whom you will be surprised to see. I must not then hesitate to ask you to seek me towards ten o'clock, at number five in the street of the Jacobins; the house is that of a bookbinder, and in the shop you will find Maria."

It had no signature; but the handwriting was that of Clemence. All that had occurred within the last few days had shown the Count de Morseiul that the crisis of his fate was approaching, that a very few days, nay, a very few hours, might decide the fortunes of his future life for ever. The mult.i.tude of matters which had pressed for his consideration during the two or three preceding days, the various anxieties that he had suffered, the mingling of joy and hope with pain and apprehension, had all created a state of mind in which it was difficult to think calmly of the future. Now, however, he had regained complete mastery of his own mind: the short interval of repose which had taken place had removed all confusion, all agitation, from his thoughts; and as he rode on towards Paris somewhat slowly, finding that there was more than the necessary time to accomplish his journey, he revolved coolly and deliberately in his own mind the peculiar points in his situation, and questioned himself as to his conduct and his duty in regard to each.

First, then, of course, came the image of Clemence; and in regard to his love for her, and her's for him, there was many a question to be asked, which was answered by his own heart, whether altogether fairly and candidly or not, those who know love and love's nature can best declare. In asking her to fly with him from France, then, he was going to take her from wealth, and splendour, and luxury, and soft nurture, and all the comforts and conveniences which, surrounding her from her earliest years, had made to her eyes poverty, and difficulty, and distress, seem but a recorded dream of which she knew nothing but that some men had felt such things.

He had to offer her in a foreign land, indeed, competence, mere competence; but would competence to her, educated as she had been educated, be any thing else than another name for poverty? Even that competence itself might perhaps be insecure. It depended upon the doubtful faith of foreign merchants, from whom he had no security, and if that were gone, he had nought to depend upon but his sword, and a high name in arms. Could Clemence bear all this? he asked himself.

Could the gay, the admired, the adored, endure seclusion and retirement, and almost solitude? Could the spoilt child of fortune undergo privation? Could she, who had been accustomed but to command to be obeyed, be contented with scanty service from foreign servants?

Would she never repine? Would she never look back to the bright land of France, and think with regret of the high station from which she had voluntarily descended? Would she never even, by one repining thought in the depth of her heart, reproach him for having won her away, to share his exile and misery? Would he never see upon her countenance one shade of sorrow and dissatisfaction when petty cares weighed down the mind made for greater things, when small anxieties and daily discomforts interrupted the current of finer and higher thoughts, or when disrespect and coldness made the sad change felt to her, upon whose words the brightest and the best had hung?

His heart answered, No; that none of these things would ever arise to make him feel that he should not have taken her from her high fortunes to share his reverses. What could not love do, he asked himself, to brighten the lowliest lot? The grand face of nature would be still before them inexhaustible as a store of enjoyment; the communion of two high minds, he felt, could never be wanting while they were united: if they retained competence, they had all that was needful; and if for a time worse fell upon them, love would surely be strong enough to excite them to every effort and every exertion, each for the other, to cheer, to encourage, to alleviate; and would bring, too, its own reward. Besides, he remembered that he should never have to reproach himself with having led Clemence to difficulty and to danger--a reproach which, could it have been brought against him by conscience, would have imbittered all his joys--for her own situation, her own faith, required flight as well as his; and by making her his own, he only secured to her protection, support, affection, and guidance.

Such were some of the thoughts which crossed his mind regarding Clemence; but there was another consideration of more difficulty, a question on which he was less satisfied. His fellow Protestants throughout the land, and more especially those who looked up to him for aid and for direction, should he now leave them to their fate, even though he could not avert from them one blow, even though he could not save them from one single pang? Should he not stay to share their lot, to comfort or to fall with them?

The question would have been answered to once, laid they been firm and united amongst themselves. It needed not, indeed, that they should have armed to resist the royal authority against which they had no power to contend; it needed not that they should have attempted to build up the churches which had been thrown down, to replace the ministers who had been ejected, to pet.i.tion for the restoration of rights which injustice had s.n.a.t.c.hed from them: it needed none of these things to have induced him, without hesitation, to stay and partake of all that might befal them, if they had displayed a resolution of remaining calmly, firmly, though peaceably, attached to their faith, addressing their prayers to G.o.d in private, if public wors.h.i.+p was forbidden them, and opposing to the iniquitous proceedings of their enemies that tranquil steady resistance of endurance, which seldom fails in ultimately repelling attack.

Had they so acted, the Count de Morseiul would have had no hesitation; but such was not the case. Even before the last severe measures, which have been recorded in this book, the inconveniences attending their situation, the apprehension of worse, and the prospect of immediate gain, had caused annually the conversion of hundreds of the Protestant population of France to the Roman Catholic faith. Nothing like a spirit of union had reigned amongst them for years; and now that danger and persecution fell upon them, each day brought to the court tidings of thousands upon thousands having at once professed conversion. Each bishop, each intendant, sent daily lists of the numbers who had quitted the religion of their fathers to embrace that of the state; and in almost all quarters, those who had courage to sacrifice something for conscience sake, were flying from the land, or preparing for flight.

He, too, had to remember that he was himself placed in a situation more difficult and dangerous than the rest. The question was not whether he should remain adhering calmly to his own faith, and living in tranquillity, though under oppression, or should fly to a foreign land; but there was a choice of three acts before him: whether he should remain to trial and perpetual imprisonment, if not death; or retiring to Poitou at once, raise the standard of hopeless revolt; or seek security in another country, leaving those to whom he could render no possible service.

The voice of reason certainly said, Fly! but yet it was painful to him to do so. Independent of all thoughts of what he left behind--the dwelling of his infancy, the tombs of his fathers, the bright land of his birth--independent of all this, there was the clinging to his own people, which few can feel deeply but those circ.u.mstanced as he was; which none indeed can feel now, when the last vestiges have been swept away of a system which, though in no slight degree dangerous and evil, had nevertheless many an amiable and many an admirable point. He loved not to leave them, he loved not to leave any fellow sufferer behind while he provided for his own safety; and though reason told him that on every motive he ought to fly, yet he felt that lingering inclination to remain, which required the voice of others to conquer entirely. Such were the princ.i.p.al questions which his mind had found to discuss during the last two days; but since the preceding night, a new subject for thought had arisen, a new question presented itself.

It however was not so difficult of solution as the others. A dark attempt upon the King's life, which could hardly have failed of success, had been nearly executed; but that was not all. From Herval he had learned, that schemes, which there was much reason to believe were dangerous to the whole state, were at that moment in agitation, if not upon the point of being accomplished. He loved not to be the denouncer of any man; and for Herval himself, he felt pity mingled with blame, which made him glad that the length of time that had elapsed, had given him an opportunity of retiring once more to Poitou.

With regard to the proceedings of Hatreaumont, however, he had no scruple and no hesitation. It was right and necessary that the King should be made acquainted with the fact of dangerous designs being in agitation; and although he was well aware, that the task of informing the monarch of the truth would be a difficult and delicate one, so as not to bring the strong and unscrupulous hand of power upon persons who might be innocent, and were only accused by the word of a man whom he sincerely believed to be partially insane, yet he resolved to undertake that task, trusting to the firmness and uprightness of his own character, to insure that the execution of it should be such as to avoid doing injury to any one who was not guilty.

Men under such circ.u.mstances in general err from an inaccuracy or deficiency of statement, proceeding from the confusion and uncertainty of a mind oppressed and agitated by the burthen of important affairs, or difficult and intricate circ.u.mstances. The Count de Morseiul, however, saw his way clearly, and prepared to tell the King exactly the words which Herval had made use of, but at the same time to inform him, that he had much reason to believe that the man was insane, and that, therefore, but little reliance was to be placed upon his statement, except so far as the employing of precaution might be required.

The meditation over all these circ.u.mstances fully occupied the time till his arrival in Paris; and dismounting at his own house, he took his way alone and on foot towards the Rue des Jacobins. The capital at that period had but little of the light and graceful architectural beauty which the citizens have since endeavoured to give it; but there was, instead, a grey, mysterious looking grandeur about the vast piles of building of which it was composed, peculiar and entirely characteristic of the French metropolis. The great height of the houses, the smallness, in general, of the windows, their mult.i.tudes, their irregularities, the innumerable carriage entrances leading into court yards where cities and new worlds seemed to be opening on every side, the intricate alleys and pa.s.sages that were seen branching here and there in unknown directions as the stranger took his way through the streets; every thing, in short, impressed upon the mind, as a keen and sensible perception, that fact, which, though common to all great capitals, is generally unfelt, that we are walking in the midst of a world of human beings with whom we have scarcely one feeling in sympathy; of whose habits, character, pursuits, pleasures, and pains we are utterly ignorant; who are living, moving, acting, feeling, undergoing life's great ordeal, smiling with rapture, writhing with anguish, melting with the bitter tears of sorrow and regret, inspired by hope, or palpitating with expectation around us on every side, without our having the slightest partic.i.p.ation in any of their feelings, with scarcely a knowledge of their existence, and certainly none of their situation.

It was impossible to walk through the streets of Paris at that time--it was impossible even to walk through the older parts of the city when I myself remember it, without having that sensation strongly excited--without asking one's self as one gazed up at the small windows of some of the many tenanted houses, and saw the half-drawn curtain shading out even the scanty portion of sun that found its way thither: Is there sickness or death within? Are there tears over the departing couch of the beloved? Is there anguish over the bier of the gone? without asking one's self, as one gazed at some wide-open cas.e.m.e.nt, courting the summer air, and perhaps with some light piece of drapery floating out into the street, Is that the abode of love and joy? Is happy heart there meeting happy heart? Are they smiling over the birth of the first-born, or watching the glad progress of a young spirit kindred with their own? without asking one's self, as the eye rested upon some squalid doorway, foul with uncleaned ages, or some window, thick and obscure with the dust of years, some dim alley, or some dark and loathsome pa.s.sage, Is vice, and plunder, and iniquity there? Is there the feverish joy of sin mingled with remorse, and anguish, and apprehension? Is there the wasting and the gnawing effects of vice, sickness, and sorrow, worn limbs, corroded heart, nights of restless watchfulness, and days of ceaseless anguish? It was impossible to walk through that tall city, with its myriads living above myriads, house within house, and court within court, without asking one's self such questions, and without feeling that the whole intense and thrilling reality of the scene was rendered but more striking by the gay and careless mult.i.tude that tripped along, each seeming scarcely conscious that there was another being in the world but himself.

The Count de Morseiul was half an hour before his time; he walked somewhat slowly, and in picturing the feelings which a contemplative mind might experience in pa.s.sing through Paris, we have pictured those which pressed for his attention, and crossed from time to time the current of his other thoughts. At length, however, he entered the Rue des Jacobins, and easily found the house to which he had been directed. It was a tall building of six stories, with a bookseller's shop upon the ground floor. Very different indeed, however, was it from a gay dwelling such as Paris now exhibits, with every new publication in blue and yellow flaming in the windows: but, through a small door, entrance was obtained into a long dark shop, where, on shelves, and in cases, and on benches, and on counters, were piled up manifold dusty volumes, whose state of tranquil slumber seemed to have been long undisturbed. A single pale apprentice, with an ap.r.o.n on and a brush in his hand, walked from one end of the shop to the other, or examined with slow inactivity the sheets of some unbound work, moving about his task with the same indifference to its speedy execution, as if the years of Mathuselah were bound up in his indentures.

The Count looked at the shop well, to ascertain that he was right, and then entered; but in the long dim vista of the counters and packages, the person he sought for was not to be seen; and not having contemplated such an occurrence, he was somewhat embarra.s.sed as to the person he should ask for. To have inquired whether a lady were waiting for him there or not, might perhaps have been received as an insult by the master of the house, and yet he thought it would be imprudent to risk the name of Clemence de Marly, when she herself might not have given it. He felt sure that had she arrived, her attendant Maria would have been at the post where she had promised to place her; and, in order to occupy the time till she came, he determined to ask for some book, and then enter into desultory conversation with the lad in the shop, after having bought it.

He had scarcely spoken, however, when from behind a pile of solid literature which obscured still farther the end of the shop, the servant Maria came forth and advanced towards him. The matter was then easily explained, and the youth seemed in no degree surprised at the appointment, but proceeded to tie up the book which the Count had demanded, while Maria told him that her young lady had only just arrived, and was waiting for him up stairs. He followed her with a rapid step as she led the way, and at the third turning of a long dim narrow staircase, he found Clemence waiting at a door and listening as if for his arrival.

There was something in the meeting under such circ.u.mstances which did away all feelings of reserve, such as perhaps might otherwise have still affected them towards each other; and Clemence, feeling that she was all his--that their fate was united for ever, felt scarcely a blush rise into her cheek when he, at once, pressed her to his heart upon their meeting. She spoke not, however, but held up her finger, as if to enjoin silence, and then led him through a little anteroom into a room beyond.

There, seated at a table with some books scattered upon it, appeared the good pastor of Auron, Claude de l'Estang. He was thinner, paler, more worn, than when first we endeavoured to depict him; but the light was not gone out in the clear bright eye, the same mild but intelligent smile hung upon the lip, the same high spirit was thrown upon the brow. He rose and grasped the young Count's hands eagerly.

"Oh, my dear Albert," he said, "I am glad to see you! This sweet child," he added, after the first exclamation, "wrote to me all that was between you and her. She is dear to my heart as if she were my own; and is she not my own. Did I not bring her back to the faith of her dear mother? Did I not rescue her from the evils of a corrupt perverted church? But of that we will speak not now, Albert. The moment I heard of it--the moment I heard that you were here, and had cast yourself, as it were, into the jaws of the lion, after the fatal night when that murderous youth, like Pilate, mingled our blood with our sacrifices--I resolved at once to make my way hither, at all and any risks, to speak to you, to exhort you, to tell you what I have decided in my own mind is the only plan for you to follow. I thought, indeed, when I set out--notwithstanding all that has occurred since you left Poitou, notwithstanding the scattering of the sheep and the driving forth of the shepherd, and the falling off of many, and the wavering of all the rest--I thought that here I might learn tidings which might make a change in my opinion, but that, at all events, it was right for me to come, in order that I might consult with you and others, and take our last final determination together. But, since I have heard from this dear child the situation in which you are placed, since I have heard from a weak brother, who has outwardly abjured the faith which he fondly clings to in his heart, things that you yourselves do not know, my opinion has been confirmed to the fullest extent, and I have only to say to you, Albert, fly! Fly with her immediately; save her from persecution, and anguish, and care; confirm her in the only true faith, and in the renunciation of every superst.i.tious vanity of the church of Rome! Strengthen her, support her, protect her! Lose no time--no, not a day; for, if you do, danger to both, and, perhaps, everlasting separation in this world may be the consequence."

"I am most ready and most willing," replied the Count. "It is absolutely necessary, indeed, that I should return to Versailles, but only for a few hours. After that, I can return hither, and, without further delay, execute what I am fully convinced is the only plan for us to pursue."

"It is the only plan," said the clergyman. "Are you aware, Albert, that, in the short s.p.a.ce of five days, one half of the Protestants of Poitou have bent the knee to Baal? Are you aware that the very men who, a week ago, clung to you for aid and protection, would now fly from you, either in shame at their own degeneracy, or because you are marked out for indignation by the powers that be? Yes, Albert, they would fly from you! There is a remnant, indeed, faithful and true unto the last; but to them I shall say, as I say to you, they must go forth to other lands, and shake off the dust from their feet as a testimony against this place. There is nothing left you, Albert, but flight, and that speedy and unhesitating. I have told you that I have heard much from a weak brother, whose renunciation of his faith weighs heavy upon him. He is in the confidence, it would seem, of those who rule; and he has informed me that it is the determination of the Monarch and his council never to let you quit the court of France except as a follower of the popish church of Rome. Every temptation is to be held out to you to make you yield, every menace used to drive you on the way they want; and should your resistance become strong and decided, the order for your arrest is already made out, and needs but one word to cause its execution. Fly, then, fly, Albert, and even if not for your own sake for hers."

"I am most willing, my good friend," replied the Count. "I need no exhortation so to do. But is Clemence still willing to go with me?"

"Can you doubt it, Albert," she said, "with _his_ approbation and advice?"

"Yet, dear Clemence," said the Count, "I should be wrong were I not to tell you what may happen. The danger, the risk of our escape, the fatigues, and labours, and anxieties of the journey, the perils that await us at every step you have made up your mind to. But, Clemence, have you thought of the change from affluence to mere competence, from splendour and luxury to bare necessaries, even perhaps to poverty itself, for all I have on earth depends upon the good faith of those to whom I have transmitted it, and I might arrive and find nothing.

Have you thought of all this? Have you thought that it may last for years, that we may have to live, and die, and bring up our children in poverty----?"

"Out upon it, Albert!" exclaimed the old man, angrily; "wouldst thou take the part of the prince of this world against her better angel?

But she will not doubt, she will not waver: I know she will not.

Sooner than be a hypocrite, sooner than abandon troth and embrace error, she would cast herself upon the world, were it ten thousand times as bad--Out upon it! she fears not: she will have her husband, and her faith, and her G.o.d to support her."

"I have not thought of all you suggest, Albert," replied Clemence more mildly, but still somewhat reproachfully, "I have not thought of them, because it was unnecessary to think of them at all. Do you not love me, Albert? Do I not love you? Is not that love riches, and splendour, and luxury enough for us? But when, beside that all-sufficient love, we have the knowledge that we are doing our duty, that we are suffering for our conscience sake, that we have left all to follow what we believe the dictates of the great Author of our faith, there will be a satisfaction, a pride, a glory, that even a woman's heart can feel. Fear not for me, Albert; I understand your scruples, and though they require forgiveness I forgive them. Let us be guided by his advice,--I am sure that it is good,--and I am willing, most willing, to risk all and every thing under such circ.u.mstances, and for such a cause."