The Huguenot Part 49

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 t.i.tle 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. "a.s.sure 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 wors.h.i.+pping G.o.d 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 Clemence 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 G.o.d, 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 n.o.body 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 a.s.sure 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 Clemence," he said, gazing tenderly upon her, "you have now, indeed, chosen your part as I could expect Clemence 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 Clemence. "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 Clemence," replied the Count, "is it possible for love to be satisfied while there is any thing touching its affection concealed?"

Clemence 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. Clemence had turned very pale.

"Fear not, dear Clemence," 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 Clemence, with a heart full of strong and mingled emotions, leaned her head upon the little table and wept.

CHAPTER XI.

THE NIGHT ATTACK.

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 ma.s.s 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 circ.u.mstances, 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 circ.u.mstances 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! n.o.body 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 G.o.d'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.