CHAPTER IV.
THE CHAPEL OF GENET.
About ten days after the departure of the Larochejaquelins fromDurbelliere, three persons were making the best of their way, onhorseback, through one of the deepest and dirtiest of the byeways, whichin those days, served the inhabitants of Poitou for roads, and alongwhich the farmers of the country contrived with infinite pains anddelay, to drag the produce of their fields to the market towns. Thelane, through which they were endeavouring to hurry the jaded animalson which they were mounted, did not lead from one town to another, andwas not therefore paved; it was merely a narrow track between continualrows of high trees, and appeared to wind hither and thither almost incircles, and the mud at every step covered the fetlocks of the threehorses. The party consisted of two ladies and a man, who, though he roderather in advance of, than behind his companions, and spoke to them fromtime to time, was their servant: a boy travelled on foot to show themthe different turns which their road made necessary to them; and though,when chosen for the duty, he had received numerous injunctions as to thespeed with which he should travel, the urchin on foot had hitherto foundno difficulty in keeping up with the equestrians. The two ladies wereMadame de Lescure and her sister-in-law, and the servant was our trustyfriend Chapeau. And we must go back a little to recount as quickly aswe can, the misfortunes which brought them into their present situation.
No rest was allowed to the Vendean chiefs after reaching Chatillon fromDurbelliere. The rapid advance of the republican troops made them thinkit expedient to try the chance of battle with them at once. They hadconsequently led out their patriot bands as far as Cholet, and hadthere, after a murderous conflict, been grievously worsted. No men couldhave fought better than did the Vendean peasants, for now they hadjoined some degree of discipline and method to their accustomed valour;but the number of their enemies was too great for them, and theyconsisted of the best soldiers of whom France could boast. The Vendeans,moreover, could not choose their own battle-field. They could not fightas they had been accustomed to do, from behind hedges, and with everyadvantage of locality on their side. They had thrown themselves on theveteran troops, who had signalized themselves at Valmy and Mayence, witha courage that amounted to desperation, but which, as it had notpurchased victory, exposed them to fearful carnage. D'Elbe, who actedas Commander-in-Chief, fell early in the day. Bonchamps, whose militaryskill was superior to that of any of the Vendeans; was mortally wounded,and before the battle was lost, de Lescure--the brave de Lescure, whomthey all so loved, so nearly worshipped--was struck down and carriedfrom the field.
There was an immense degree of superstition mixed up with the religiousfervour of the singular people who were now fighting for their liberty;and many of them sincerely believed that de Lescure was invulnerable,and that they were secure from any fatal reverse as long as he was withthem. This faith was now destroyed; and when the rumour spread alongtheir lines that he had been killed, they threw down their arms, andrefused to return to the charge. It was in vain that HenriLarochejaquelin and the young Chevalier tried to encourage them; thatthey assured them that de Lescure was still living, and exposed theirown persons in the thickest of the enemy's fire. It was soon too evidentthat the battle was lost, and that all that valour and skill could do,was to change the flight into a retreat.
Many personal reasons would have made Henri prefer returning towardsChatillon, but it had been decided that, in the event of such a disasteras that which had now befallen them, the cause in which they wereengaged would be best furthered by a general retreat of all the troopsacross the Loire into Brittany; and consequently Henri, collectingtogether what he could of his shattered army, made the best of his wayto St. Florent. The men did not now hurry to their homes, as they didafter every battle, when the war first began; but their constancy totheir arms arose neither from increased courage nor better discipline.They knew that their homes were now, or would soon be, but heaps ofruins, and that their only hope of safety consisted in their remainingwith the army. This feeling, which prevented the dispersion of the men,had another effect, which added greatly to the difficulty of theofficers. The wives, children, and sisters of the Vendean peasants, alsoflocked to the army in such numbers, that by the time the disorderedmultitude reached St. Florent, Henri found himself surrounded by 80,000human, creatures, flying from the wrath of the blues, though not abovea quarter of that number were men capable of bearing arms.
De Lescure, in a litter, accompanied them to St. Florent, and Chapeauwas sent back to Chatillon to bid the ladies and the old Marquis jointhe army at that place. Chapeau was sent direct from the field of battlebefore it was known whether or no M. de Lescure's wound was mortal, andat a moment when Henri could give him nothing but a general directionas to the route which the army was about to take. Chapeau reachedChatillon without accident; but having reached it, he found that hisdifficulties were only about to commence. What was he to tell Madame deLescure of her husband? How was he to convey the three ladies and theMarquis from Chatillon to St. Florent, through a country, the greaterportion of which would then be in the hands of the blues?
Make the best he could of it, the news was fearfully bad. He told Madamede Lescure that her husband was certainly wounded, but that as certainlyhe was not killed; and that he had every reason, though he could not saywhat reason, to believe that the wound was not likely to be fatal. Thedoubt conveyed in these tidings was, if possible, more fearful than anycertainty; added to this was the great probability that Chatillon would,in a day or two, be in the hands of the republicans. They decided, orrather Chapeau decided for them, that they should start immediately forSt. Florent; and that, instead of attempting to go by the direct road,they should make their way thither by bye-lanes, and through smallvillages, in which they possibly might escape the ferocity of theirenemies.
A huge waggon was procured, and in it a bed was laid, on which theunfortunate old man could sit, and with the two horses which they hadbrought with them from Durbelliere, they started on their journey. Theyrested the first night at St. Laurent, the place where Agatha hadestablished an hospital, and where Cathelineau had died. The Sisters ofMercy who had tended it were still there, but the wards were nowdeserted. Not that the wars afforded no occupants for them, but theapproach of the republicans had frightened away even the maimed andsick. On the following morning Madame de Lescure declared that she couldno longer endure the slow progress of the waggon, and consequently,Chapeau having with difficulty succeeded in procuring three horses, shestarted, accompanied by him and her sister-in-law, to make her way asbest she could to her husband, while the Marquis and his daughter, witha guide, followed in the cumbrous waggon.
On the second day the equestrians crossed the Sevre, at Mortaigne, andreached Torfou in safety. On the third day they passed Montfaucon, andwere struggling to get on to a village called Chaudron, not far from St.Florent, when we overtook them at the beginning of the chapter.
They had already, however, began to doubt that they could possiblysucceed in doing so. The shades of evening were coming on them. The poorbrutes which carried them were barely able to lift their legs, and,Madame de Lescure was so overpowered with fatigue and anxiety, that shecould hardly sustain herself in the pillion on which she sat.
The peasants whom they met from time to time asked them hundreds ofquestions about the war. Many of the men of the district were alreadygone, and their wives and children were anxious to follow them, but thepoor creatures did not know which way to turn. They did not know wherethe army was, or in what quarter they would be most secure. They had anundefined fear that the blues were coming upon them with fire andslaughter, and that they would be no longer safe, even in their ownhumble cottages.
One person told them that Chaudron was distant only two leagues, andhearing this they plucked up their courage, and made an effort to rousethat of their steeds. Another, however, soon assured them that it wasat the very least a long five leagues to Chaudron, and again theirspirits sank in despair. A third had never heard the
name of the place,and at last a fourth informed them, that whatever the distance might be,they were increasing it every moment, and that their horses' heads wereturned exactly in the wrong direction. Then at length their young guideconfessed that he must have lost his way, and excused himself bydeclaring that the turnings were so like one another that it wasimpossible for any one in that country really to remember his way at adistance of more than two leagues from his own home.
"And what village are we nearest to, my friend?" said Chapeau, inquiringof the man who had given the above unwelcome information.
"Why the chapel of Genet," said he, "is but a short quarter of a leaguefrom you, and the Cure's house is close by, but the village and thechateau are a long way beyond that, and not on the straight roadeither."
"Ask him the Cure's name, Chapeau," said Marie: "we will go there andtell him, who we are.'
"If he lives in his own house quietly now, Mademoiselle," answeredChapeau, "it would be dangerous to do so; he must be one of theconstitutional priests." He asked the man, however, what was the nameof the Cure.
"Why the regular old Cure went away long since, and another was here awhile in his place--"
"Well, and he has gone away now, I suppose?" said Chapeau.
"Why, yes; he went away too a while since, when Cathelineau turned thesoldiers out of St. Florent."
"God bless him," said Chapeau, meaning Cathelineau, and not the priest."And is there no one in the house now, my friend? for you see these twoladies are unable to travel further. If there be a friend living there,I am sure he will procure them some accommodation."
"And where did the ladies come from?" asked the man.
"You need not be afraid," replied Chapeau, "they, and all belonging tothem, are friends to the good cause;" and then, after considering withinhimself for a while, he added, "I will tell you who they are, they arethe wife and sister of M. de Lescure."
Had he told the man that they were angels from heaven, and had the manbelieved him, he could neither have been more surprised, or expresseda stronger feeling of adoration.
The poor man implored a multitude of blessings on the two ladies, whosenames were so dear to every peasant of La Vendee, and then told themthat after the new priest had ran away, the old Cure had come back tohis own house again, but that Father Bernard was a very old man, hardlystrong enough even to perform mass, though, as there was no one else toit, he did go through it every Sabbath morning; that for these two dayspast there had been another priest staying with Father Bernard; he didnot, however, know what his name was, but he knew that he had been withthe army, and that no priest through all La Vendee had been more activethan he had been to encourage the royalists. The man then offered toshow them to the Cure's house, and they all turned thither together.
The little chapel was on one side of the road, and the humble house ofthe parish priest was immediately opposite to it, ensconced among a fewtrees, at a little distance from the road. The door of the chapel wasopen, and the murmuring sound of low voices within told the party thatvespers were being sung. Madame de Lescure did not like calling at thepriest's house without being announced, and she therefore desiredChapeau to go down and explain who she was, and the circumstances underwhich she begged for the Cure's hospitality, and proposed that she andMarie should get off their horses, and remain in the chapel till Chapeaureturned.
They entered the little chapel, and found in it about a dozen peasantson their knees, while a priest was chaunting the vespers from a smallside altar, built in a niche in the wall. It was now late, and thelight, which even abroad was growing dimmer every moment, was still lessstrong within the building. They could not, therefore, see the face ofthe priest as he knelt at the side of the altar, but the voice seemedfamiliar to both of them.
Madame de Lescure, perhaps as much from fatigue as from devotion, sankdown at once upon her knees against a little stone seat which projectedfrom the wall near the door, but Marie remained standing, straining hereyes to try to catch the features of the Cure. After a moment or two shealso knelt down, and said in a whisper to her sister, "It is the Cureof St. Laud--it is our own Father Jerome."
They had hardly been a minute or two in their position near the door,when the service for the evening was over, and the priest, rising fromthe altar, gave his blessing to the little congregation. Some of themrose from their knees and left the chapel, but a portion of them stillremained kneeling, with their heads in their hands, trying to make up,by the length and perseverance of their devotion, for any deficiencythere might be in its fervour. The two ladies also rose, and though theydoubted for a moment what to do, they both advanced to the rude stepsof the little altar, at which Father Jerome was again kneeling. He hadnot seen them as yet, nor had he noticed the entrance of any one, butthe ordinary congregation of the chapel; and so absorbed was he, eitherin his thoughts or his devotions, that he did not even observe them tillthey were standing close to his elbow.
"Father Jerome," said Madame de Lescure in a low voice, laying her handon the threadbare sleeve of the old grey coat, which he still wore. "Ifyou could guess the comfort I have in finding you here!"
The priest sprang from his knees at hearing her voice, and gazed at heras though she had been a ghost.
"Is it possible," said he, "Madame de Lescure and Mademoiselle here inthe chapel of Genet!" and then turning to the gaping peasants, he said,"go home, my children, go home! I have business to speak of to theseladies."
"Oh, Father Jerome," said Madame de Lescure, as soon as they were alone,"for heaven's sake tell me something of M. de Lescure. You have heardof what happened at Cholet?"
"Yes, Madame, I was there," said the priest.
"You were there! then you can tell me of my husband. For God's sake,speak, Father Jerome! Tell me the worst at once. I can bear it, for itcan't be worse than I expect. Is he--is he alive?"
Father Jerome had been in the midst of the hottest part of the battleat Cholet, sometimes encouraging the troops by his words, and at othersleading them on by his example, charging at their head, with his hugecrucifix lifted high in the air. He had been close to de Lescure whenhe fell, and had seen him in his litter after he was carried from thefield of battle. He could, therefore, have said at once that he had seenhim alive after the battle was over, but he had no wish to deceiveMadame de Lescure; and at the moment of which we are speaking, he mostundoubtedly believed that the wound had been fatal, and that her husbandwas no more.
A musket-ball had entered just below the eye, and making its waydownwards, had lodged itself in the back of his neck. A surgeon hadexamined the wound before Father Jerome left the army; and though he hadnot positively said that it would prove mortal, he had spoken sounfavourably of the case, as to make all those who heard him believethat it would be so.
Had Father Jerome expected to see the two nearest and dearest relationsof the man whom he thought to be now no more, he would have preparedhimself for the difficult task which he would have had to undertake, andno one would have been better able to go through it with feeling,delicacy, and firmness; but such was not the case. The sudden apparitionof the wife and sister of his friend seemed to him to be supernatural;and though he at once made up his mind to give no false hope, he couldnot so quickly decide in what way he should impart the sad news whichhe had to tell.
Madame de Lescure was trembling so violently as she asked the question,on the answer to which her fate depended, that the priest observed it,and he turned to the altar at the end of the chapel, to fetch a rudechair which stood there for the use of the officiating clergyman, andwhich was the only moveable seat in the chapel; and whilst doing so, hewas enabled to collect his thoughts, so as to answer not quite so muchat random as he otherwise must have done.
"Sit down, Madame de Lescure," said he, "sit down, Mademoiselle," andhe made the latter sit down on the altar step. "You are fatigued, andyou have agitated yourself too intensely."
"Why don't you speak, Father Jerome? Why don't you tell me at once--ishe alive?" And then
she added, almost screaming in her agitation, "ForGod's sake, Sir, don't keep a wretched, miserable woman in suspense!"
The priest gazed for a moment at the unfortunate lady. She had, at hisbidding sunk upon the chair, but she could hardly be said to be seated,as, with her knees bent under her, and her hands clasped, she gazed upinto his face. She felt that her husband was dead but still, till thefatal word was spoken, there was hope enough within her heart to feedthe agony of doubt which was tormenting her. Marie had hitherto saidnothing; she had made her own grief subservient to that of her brother'swife, and, though hardly less anxious, she was less agitated than theother.
"I cannot tell you anything with certainty, Madame," said the priest atlast. "I cannot--"
"Then you do not know that he is dead! Then there is, at any rate, someroom for hope!" said she, not allowing him to finish what he was aboutto say; and she sank back in the chair, and relieved her overwroughtmind with a flood of tears.
The priest was firmly convinced that de Lescure was at this momentnumbered among the dead, and his conscience forbad him to relievehimself of his dreadful task, by allowing her to entertain a false hope;he had still, therefore, to say the words which he found it so difficultto utter.
He sat down beside Marie on the low step of the altar, immediatelyopposite to Madame de Lescure; he still had on him the vestments of hisholy office, though they were much worn, shabby, and soiled, and thecap, which formed a part of the priest's dress when officiating, was onhis head; his shoes were so worn and tattered, that they were nearlyfalling from his feet, and the stockings, which displayed the shape ofhis huge legs, were so patched and darned with worsteds of differentcolours, as to have made them more fitting for a mountebank than a.priest. At the present moment, there was no one likely to notice hiscostume; but had there been an observer there, it would have told hima tale, easy to be read, of the sufferings which had been endured bythis brave and faithful servant of the King.
"When God, Madame de Lescure," said he, speaking in a kind, peculiarlysolemn tone of voice, "when God called upon you to be the wife of himwho has been to you so affectionate a husband, He vouchsafed to youhigher blessings, but at the same time imposed on you sterner dutiesthan those which women in general are called upon to bear. You haveenjoyed the blessings, and if I know your character, you will not shrinkfrom the duties."
"I will shrink from nothing, Father Jerome," said she. "God's will bedone! I will endeavour to bear the burden which His Providence lays onme; but I have all a woman's weakness, and all a woman's fears."
"He who has given strength and courage to so many of His people in theseafflicted days, will also give it to you; He will enable you to bear theweight of His hand, which in chastising, blesses us, which in punishingus here, will render us fit for unutterable joys hereafter." He pauseda moment; but as neither of the women could now speak through theirtears, he went on: "I was close to your husband when he fell, and as hiseyes closed on the battlefield, they rested on the blessed emblem of hisredemption."
"He is dead then!" said she, jumping from her chair, and struggling withthe sobs which nearly choked her. "Oh Sir, if you have the mercy whicha man should feel for a wretched woman, tell me at least the truth," andas she spoke, she threw herself on her knees before him.
Father Jerome certainly lacked no mercy, and usually speaking, he lackedno firmness; but now he nearly felt himself overcome. "You must composeyourself before I can speak calmly to you, my daughter--before you caneven understand what I shall say to you. I will not even speak to youtill you are again seated, and then I will tell you everything.There--remember now, I will tell you everything as it happened, and, asfar as I know, all that did happen. You must summon up your courage, mychildren, and show yourself worthy to have been the wife and sister ofthat great man whom you loved so well."
"He is dead!" said Marie, speaking for the first time, and almost in awhisper. "I know now that it is so," and she threw herself into hersister's lap, and embraced her knees.
The priest did not contradict her, but commenced a narrative, which heintended to convey to his listeners exactly the same impressions whichwere on his own mind. In this, however, he failed. He told them that deLescure had been carried senseless from the field, and had been takenby Henri in a litter on the road towards St. Florent; that he himselfhad been present when the surgeon expressed an almost fatal opinionrespecting the wound, but that the wounded man was still alive when helast saw him, and that, since then, he had heard no certain newsrespecting him. Even this statement, which the priest was unable to makewithout many interruptions, acted rather as a relief than otherwise toMadame de Lescure. She might, at any rate, see her husband again; andit was still possible that both the surgeon and Father Jerome might bewrong. As soon as he had told his tale, she, forgetting her fatigue, andthe difficulties which surrounded her, wanted immediately to resume herjourney, and Father Jerome was equally anxious to learn how she andMarie had come so far, and how they intended to proceed.
Chapeau had in the mean time called on the old priest, and though he hadfound it almost impossible to make him understand what he wanted, or whothe ladies were of whom he spoke, he had learnt that Father Jerome wasin the chapel, and was as much gratified as he was surprised to hear it.He had then hurried back, and though he had not put himself forwardduring the scene which has been just described, he had heard what hadpassed.
He now explained to Father Jerome the way in which they had leftChatillon, and journeyed on horseback from St. Laurent, and declared,at the same time with much truth, that it was quite impossible for themto proceed farther on their way that night.
"The poor brutes are dead beat," said he. "All the spurs in Poitouwouldn't get them on a league. The night will be pitch dark, too, and,above all, Madame and Mademoiselle would be killed. They have alreadybeen on horseback all day--and so they were yesterday: it is quite clearthey must rest here tonight."
Chapeau's arguments against their farther progress were conclusive, andas there was no better shelter to which to take them, Father Jerome ledthem into the little glebe. "There is but one bed left in the place,"said he, as he entered the gate, "but you will be very welcome to that;you will find it poor enough; Father Bernard has shared it with me forthe last two nights. We poor Cures have not many luxuries to offer toour friends now."
Madame de Lescure tried to utter some kind of protest that she would notturn the poor old man out of his only bed, but she succeeded badly inthe attempt, for her heart was sad within her, and she hardly knew whatshe was saying. They all followed Father Jerome out of the chapel, ofwhich he locked the door, and putting the key into his pocket, strodeinto the humble dwelling opposite.
They found Father Bernard seated over a low wood fire, in a smallsitting-room, in which the smell arising from the burning of damp stickswas very prevalent. There was one small rickety table in the middle ofthe room, and one other chair besides that occupied by the host, andwith these articles alone the room was furnished. That there was nocarpet in a clergyman's house in Poitou was not remarkable; indeed itwould have been very remarkable if there had been one; but the totalwant of any of the usual comforts of civilized life struck even Madamede Lescure, unsuited as she was at the present moment to take notice ofsuch things.
The old man did not rise, but stared at them somewhat wildly: he wasnearly doting from age; and fear, poverty, and sorrow, added to his manyyears, had now weighed him down almost to idiotcy. Father Jerome did thehonours of the house; he made Madame de Lescure sit down on the chair,and then bustling into the kitchen, brought out a three legged stool,which he wiped with the sleeve of his coat, and offered to Marie. Thenhe took Chapeau to the door, and whispered to him some secretcommunication with reference to supper; in fact, he had to confess thatthere was nothing in the house but bread, and but little of that. Thatneither he or Father Bernard had a sou piece between them, and thatunless Chapeau had money, and could go as far as the village andpurchase eggs, they would all have to go supperless to bed. Ch
apeauluckily was provided, and started at once to forage for the party, andFather Jerome returned into the room relieved from a heavy weight.
"My dear old friend here," said he, laying his hand on the old man'sarm, "has not much to offer you; but I am sure you are welcome to what-he has. There is not a heart in all La Vendee beats truer to hissovereign than his. Old age, misfortune, and persecution, have lain aheavy hand on him lately, but his heart still warms to the cause. Doesit not my old friend?" And Father Jerome looked kindly into his face,striving to encourage him into some little share of interest in what wasgoing on.
"I don't think I'll ever be warm again," said the old man, drawing hischair still nearer to the dull smoky fire, and shivering as he did so."Everything is cold now. I don't understand why these ladies are comehere, or what they're to do; but they're very welcome, Jerome, verywelcome. A strange man came in just now, and said they must have mybed."
"Oh no, Sir," said Madame de Lescure, inexpressibly shocked at thedreadful misery of the poor old man; "indeed, indeed, we will not. Itis only for one night, and we shall do very well. Indeed, we would notturn you out of your bed."
"You are welcome, Madame, welcome to it all--welcome as the flowers inMay. I know who you are, though I forget your name; it is a name dearto all La Vendee. Your husband is a great and good man; indeed, youshall have my bed, though you'll find it very cold. Your husband--but,oh dear! I beg your pardon, Madame, I forgot."
I need not say that the evening which they spent at Genet, wasmelancholy enough, and the privations which they suffered were dreadful.During the early part of the night both Madame de Lescure and Marie laydown for a few hours, but nothing, which could be said, would inducethem to keep the old priest longer from his bed. About midnight they gotup and spent the remainder of the night seated on the two chairs nearthe fire, while Father Jerome squatted on the stool, and with his elbowson his knees, and his face upon his hands, sat out the long night,meditating upon the fortunes of La Vendee.
They started early on the next morning, and the priest of St. Laud'swent with them, leaving Father Bernard in perfect solitude, for he hadneither friend or relative to reside beneath his roof.
"Some of them will come down from time to time," said Father Jerome,"and do what little can be done for him, poor old man! His sufferings,it is to be hoped, will not last many days."
"And will he perform mass next Sunday?" said Marie.
"Indeed he will, if able to walk across the road into the chapel, andwill forget no word of the service, and make no blunder in the ceremony.To you he seems to be an idiot, but he is not so, though long sufferinghas made his mind to wander strangely, when he sees strange faces. Thereare many who have been called to a more active sphere of duty for theirKing and country than that poor Cure, but none who have suffered moreacutely for the cause, and have born their sufferings with greaterpatience."