La Vendée

  CHAPTER V.

  DE LESCURE.

  De Lescure with his sister returned on the following morning to Clisson;for so was his chateau called. Clisson is about two leagues south of thetown of Brassiere, in the province of Poitou, and is situated in thesouthern part of the Bocage. M. de Lescure owned the chateau and aconsiderable territory around it. He was a man of large property in thatcountry where the properties were all comparatively small, and was inother respects also by far the most influential person in theneighbourhood. He had married a lady with a large fortune, which gavehim more means of assisting the poor than most of the gentlemen residentin the Bocage possessed. He took a deep interest in the welfare of thosearound him; he shared their joys, and sympathized with their grief, andhe was consequently beloved, and almost adored.

  He had now undertaken to join with his whole heart the insurgentsagainst the Republic, and he was fully determined to do so; he had madeup his mind that it was his duty to oppose measures which he thoughtdestructive to the happiness of his countrymen, and to make an effortto re-establish the throne; but he did not bring to the work thesanguine hope of success, the absolute pleasure in the task whichanimated Larochejaquelin; nor yet the sacred enthusiastic chivalry ofCathelineau, who was firmly convinced of the truth of his cause, andbelieved that the justice of God would not allow the murderers of aKing, and the blasphemers of his name to prevail against the arms ofpeople who were both loyal and faithful.

  De Lescure had studied and thought much; he was older thanLarochejaquelin, much better educated than Cathelineau. He was as ardentin the cause as they were; why else had he undertaken it? but heunderstood better than they did the fearful chances which were againstthem: the odds against which they had to fight, the almost insuperabledifficulties in their way. He knew that the peasantry around them wouldbe brave and enthusiastic followers, but he also knew that it would belong before they were disciplined soldiers. He was sure that they wouldfight stoutly round their homes and their families; but he felt that itwould be almost impossible to lead any body of them to a distance fromtheir own fields. He foresaw also all the horrors into which they wereabout to plunge; horrors, of which an honourable death on the field ofbattle would be the least. The Republic had already shown the bitternessof their malice towards those who opposed them, and de Lescure knew whatmercy it would shew to those of his party who fell into its power.

  Besides, how could they hope for success against the arms of a wholenation supported by a despotic government. His friends talked sanguinelyof aid from England, from Austria, and from Prussia; but he feared thatthat aid would come too late, after their houses were burnt, and theirfields destroyed; after the best among them had fallen; after theirchildren had been murdered; when the country should be depopulated, andnothing but the name of La Vendee left.

  With all these fears around his heart, and yet with a firm determinationto give himself entirely to the cause in which he was embarked, deLescure rode home to tell his young wife, to whom he was but barely twoyears married, that he must not only leave her, and give up the life socongenial to both their tastes, which they had lately led; but that hewas going to place himself in constant danger, and leave her and all heloved in danger also.

  "You must be very good to Victoriana," he said to his sister; "you mustbe very good to each other, Marie, for you will both have much to bear."

  "We will, we will," said Marie; "but you, Charles, you will be with us;at any rate not far from us."

  "I may be near you, and yet not with you; or I may soon be placed beyondall human troubles. I would have you prepare yourself; of all the curseswhich can fall on a country, a civil war is the most cruel."

  Madame de Lescure was the daughter of a nobleman of high rank; she hadbeen celebrated as a beauty, and known to possess a great fortune; shehad been feted and caressed in the world, but she had not been spoiled;she was possessed of much quiet sense; and though she was a woman ofstrong passions, she kept them under control. When her husband told her,therefore, that the quiet morning of their life was over, that they hadnow to wade through contest, bloodshed, and civil war, and that probablyall their earthly bliss would be brought to a violent end before thecountry was again quiet, she neither screamed nor fainted; but she felt,what he intended that she should feel that she must, now, more entirelythan ever, look for her happiness in some world beyond the present one.

  "I know, Victorine," said he, when they were alone together in theevening, when not even his own dear sister Marie was there to mar thesacred sweetness of their conference, "I know that I am doing right, andthat gives me strength to leave you, and our darling child. I know thatI am about to do my duty; and you would not wish that I should remainhere in safety, when my King and my country require my services."

  "No, Charles; I would never wish that you should be disgraced in yourown estimation. I could perfectly disregard what all others said of you,as long as you were satisfied with your own conduct; but I would not forany worldly happiness, that you should live a coward in your ownesteem."

  "My own, own Victorine," said he, "how right you are! What truehappiness could we have ever had, if we attempted to enjoy it at theexpense of our countrymen! Every man owes his life to his country; inhappy, quiet times, that debt is best paid by the performance of homelyquiet duties; but our great Father has not intended that lot for us."

  "His will be done. He may yet turn away from us this misery. We may yetlive, Charles, to look on these things as our dearest reminiscences."

  "We may; but it is not the chance for which we should be best prepared.We are not to expect that God will raise his arm especially to vindicateour injuries; it would be all but blasphemous to ask Him to do so. Weare but a link in the chain of events which His wisdom has designed.Should we wish that that chain should be broken for our purposes?"

  "Surely not. I would not be so presumptuous as to name my own wishes inmy prayers to the Creator."

  "No; leave it to His wisdom to arrange our weal or woe in this world;satisfied with this, that He has promised us happiness in the worldwhich is to come."

  "I must leave you on Monday, dearest," continued he, after a pause,during which he sat with his wife's hand within his own.

  "So soon, Charles!"

  "Yes, dearest, on Monday. Henri, and Adolphe, and others, will be hereon Sunday; and our different duties will commence immediately."

  "And will yours keep you altogether away from Clisson?"

  "Very nearly so; at any rate, I could not name the day or the week, whenI might be with you. You and Marie will be all in all to each other now;do not let her droop and grow sad, Victorine."

  "Nay, Charles, it is she should comfort me; she loves no dear husband.Marie dotes on you; but she can never feel for a brother, as I must feelfor you."

  "She is younger than you, Victorine, and has not your strength of mind."

  "She has fewer cares to trouble her; but we will help each other; itwill be much to me to have her with me in your absence. I know she isgiving up much in returning to Clisson, and she does it solely for mysake."

  "How! what is she giving up? Will she not be better in her own home thanelsewhere in such times as these."

  "She might choose to change her home, Charles; I had a happy, happyhome, but I should not have been contented to remain there till now. Ifound that something more than my own old home was necessary to myhappiness."

  "You have made but a sad exchange, my love."

  "Would I for all the world recall what I have done? Have I everrepented? Shall I ever repent? No; not though your body were broughtbreathless to your own hall door, would I exchange my right to mournover it, for the lot of the happiest bride just stepping from the altarin all the pride of loveliness and rank?"

  "My own true love. But tell me, what is this you mean about Marie.Surely she is not betrothed without my knowledge."

  "Betrothed! Oh, no! Nor won, nor wooed, as far as I believe; but wewomen, Charles, see through each other's little secrets. I think s
he isnot indifferent to Henri Larochejaquelin; and how should she be! How fewshe sees from whom to choose; and if all France were before her feet,how could she make a better choice than him."

  "Poor Marie, from my heart I pity her; in any other times than these,how I would have gloried to have given Henri my sister; but now, theseare no times to marry, or to give in marriage. Henri has stern, hardwork to do, and he is bent on doing it; ay, and he will do it. No onewill carry the standard of his King further into the ranks of therepublicans than Henri Larochejaquelin."

  "I know one, Charles, who will, at any rate, be beside him."

  "But he is so full of glorious confidence--so certain of success. Hewill go to battle with the assured hope of victory. I shall fightexpecting nothing but defeat."

  "You are melancholy, tonight, my love: something ails you beyond yourdread of the coming struggle."

  "Can I be other than melancholy? I have no hope."

  "No hope, Charles. Oh! do not say you have no hope."

  "None in this world, Victorine. The Indian widow, when she throwsherself on the burning pile, with a noble courage does what she has beentaught to look upon as a sacred duty, but she cannot but dread the firewhich is to consume her."

  "You would not liken yourself to her?"

  "Through the mercy of our blessed Saviour I am not so mistaken in mycreed; but I am hardly less calamitous in my fate: but it is not theprospect of my own sufferings which disturb me; I at any rate may beassured of an honourable, even an enviable death. It is my anxiety foryou--for our little one--and for dear Marie, which makes my spirit sad."

  "God will temper the wind to the shorn lamb," said Madame de Lescure."Our trials will not be harder than we can bear."

  "God bless you for those words, dearest: there is comfort in them--real,true comfort. But remember them yourself Victorine; remember them whenyou will most want them. When great sorrow comes home to your bosom, asit will do; when affliction is heavy on you, when worldly comforts areleaving you, when enemies are around you, when the voices of cruel menare in your ears, and their cruel deeds before your eyes, then remember,my love, that God will temper the wind to the shorn lamb."

  "I will, my own Charles, I will," said she, now kneeling at his feet,and burying her face in her hands upon his knees; "if I am called uponto bear these miseries, I will remember it."

  "And look up, Victorine; look up, dearest. I would have you prepared forthe worst. Listen to me now calmly, love, and then I need not harrow youwith these thoughts again. It may be God's pleasure that I shouldoutlive this war; but as, with His will, I am determined that I willnever lay down my sword till the soldiers of the Republic are drivenfrom the province, it is most improbable that I should do so. You mustteach yourself, Victorine, to look for my death, as an event certain tooccur, which any day may bring forth; and when the heavy news is broughtto you, bear it as a Christian woman should bear the afflictions ofthis, world. I do not ask you not to weep for me, for that would beputting too violent a constraint upon your nature, but do not weep overmuch. Above all, Victorine, do not allow your sorrow to paralyse youractions. You will have to act then, not only for yourself, but for yourchild--for my daughter; and if you then give way to the violence ofsorrow, who shall think and care for her?"

  She laid her beautiful head upon his bosom, and wept, and promised, andprayed for him. And when he had finished what he felt he had to say,what he wished to say once, and but once, before he left her, he becamemore cheerful, and seemed to have more spirit for his work than he hadhitherto shewn.

  "And so," he said, after a while, "poor Marie is in love."

  "Nay; I did not say she was in love-not in the deep depth of absolutelove--but I think she is not indifferent to Henri: were she truly andearnestly in love, she would have told me so."

  "Not indifferent to him, and yet not in love. Faith, Victorine, I knownot the difference; but you women are such adepts in the science, thatyou have your degrees of comparison in it."

  "Marie, then, has not yet reached the first degree, for hers is not evendownright positive love; but I am sure she is fond of Henri's society;and now, poor girl, she must give it up--and probably for ever."

  "As you said a while since, Victorine, how should she not like hissociety? I can fancy no man more fit to be the cynosure of a woman's eyethan Larochejaquelin. He has that beauty which women love to look on:the bold bright eye, the open forehead, the frank, easy smile, and hisface is only a faithful index to his heart; he is as frank as brave, andyet as tender-hearted as he looks to be; he is specially formed to loveand to be loved."

  "Poor Marie! I grieve that you brought her from Durbelliere."

  "Not so, Victorine; this is the place for Marie now; indeed, dear girl,she knew that well herself. The Marquis pressed her hard to stay, andI said nothing; but Marie insisted on coming home. I thought Henrilooked somewhat more sombre than is his wont, as he was leading her downthe steps: but he cannot, must not, think of love now, Victorine. LaVendee now wants all his energies."

  "But you would not forbid him to love her, Charles?"

  "I could forbid him nothing, for I love him as Joseph loved his youngerbrother Benjamin."

  "And he will be here now backwards and forwards, will he not?"

  "Probably he will--that is as circumstances may arise--he is, at anyrate, as likely to be at Clisson as Durbelliere."

  "He will be more likely, Charles, take my word for it; you cannotprevent their meeting; you cannot hinder them from loving each other."

  "Were the King upon his throne, it would be my greatest joy to give mysister to my friend, but now--it is the same for all of us--we must takethe chance of these horrid times; and could they be taught to quench thewarm feelings of their young hearts, it were well for both of them. Thecold, callous disposition would escape much misery, which will weighdown to the grave the loving and the generous."

  On the next morning, Madame de Lescure spoke to her sister-in-law on thesame subject. She could not bring herself to look on things around herquite so darkly as her husband did. She could not think that there wasno longer any hope in their once happy country for the young and thegenerous, the beautiful and the brave; of herself and her own lot, herthoughts were sombre enough. De Lescure had imbued her with thatpresentiment, which he himself felt so strongly, that he should perishin the conflict in which he was about to engage; but all would notsurely be doomed to share her cup of sorrow. She loved Marie dearly, andshe loved Henri, not only from what her husband so often said of him,but from what she knew of him herself; and she longed in her woman'sheart that they should be happy together.

  It was still March, but it was on a bright warm spring morning, thatMadame de Lescure was walking with her sister-in-law in the gardens atClisson. Marie was talking of her brother--of the part he was to takein the war--of the gallant Cathelineau, and of the events which were soquickly coming on them; but Madame de Lescure by degrees weaned her fromthe subject and brought her to that on which she wished to speak.

  "M. Larochejaquelin will be much here as long as this fighting lasts andM. Denot: we shall have plenty of brave knights coming to and fro to laytheir trophies at your feet."

  "Poor M. Denot--his trophies if he gets any will be taken toDurbelliere; and I fear me, when he offers them, they will not bewelcomed. Agatha loves him not; she thinks he shares his adoration tooequally between her and his looking-glass."

  "I do not wonder at it; no one can deny that M. Denot is attractive, buthe attracts without retaining; were I ever so much in want of lovers,I could not endure M. Denot's attentions for more than one evening atthe utmost; but our other knight--our other preux chevalier, sans peuret sans reproche--at whose feet will he lay his trophies, Marie? who isto wreath a crown of bay leaves for his brow?"

  "His countrywomen should all unite to do it, Victorine--for he is goingout to battle for them all--every village girl, whose lover is stillleft to walk with her on the Sabbath evening--every young wife, who canstill lay her baby in her husband's arm
s--every mother, who stillrejoices in the smile of her stalwart son; they should all unite towreath a crown for the brow of Henri Larochejaquelin."

  "And so they shall, Marie; but there will be others also, whose valourwill claim a token of admiration from the gratitude of theircountrywomen; we will all do this for Henri and our other bravedefenders; but if I know his character, the gratitude of many will notmake him happy without the favour of one, and she will be the lady ofhis love; the remembrance of whose smiles will bear him scathelessthrough the din of the battle."

  "I should be vain, Victorine, if I pretended to misunderstand yourquestions," said Marie; "but why you should mix my name with that of M.Larochejaquelin, without vanity I do not know."

  "It does not offend you, Marie?"

  "Offend me, dearest Victorine! how should I be offended with anythingyou could say?"

  "But would it offend you to see Henri Larochejaquelin at your feet."

  "Is there any girl in France who would have a right to be offended atseeing him there, if he came with a tale of true love?"

  "You may be sure at least that Henri will never sully his lips withfalse vows," said Madame de Lescure.

  "He has at any rate made no vows to me, Victorine, nor given me causeto suppose he ever will."

  "But should he do so, Marie?"

  "Now you ask me questions which you know it only becomes me to answerin one way."

  "Why, Marie, I declare you and I have changed characters this morning.You are all sobriety when I make a poor attempt at joking with you. WereI, as usual, talking of my sober cares, you would be as giddy as a girlof fifteen, and talk to me of twenty lovers that you have."

  "It is very different talking of twenty lovers, and of one."

  "Then you own there is one lover in the case--eh, Marie?"

  "Now you are crafty, Victorine, and try to trap me into confessions. Youknow I have no confession to make, or I should have made it long ago toyou."

  "I know, Marie, that Larochejaquelin is sad when you are not by, andthat he has a word for no one else when you are present; but I know notwhether that means love. I know also that your bright eyes brighten whenthey rest on him, and that your heart beats somewhat faster at themention of his name; but I know not whether that means love."

  "Victorine," said Marie, turning round upon her companion her beautifulface, on which two lustrous tears were shining, "Victorine, you aretreating your poor sister unfairly. I know not that my eyes are turnedoftener on him than on others; and when my heart would play the rebelwithin me, I always try to check it."

  "Nay, Marie, dear Marie, I did but joke! You do not think I would accuseyou of an unmaidenly partiality; if it grieves you we will not mentionHenri's name again, though I remember when you did not spare me soeasily; when Charles' name was always in my ear, when you swore thatevery dress I wore was his choice, that every flower I plucked was forhis eye; and there had been no more then between Charles and me, thanthere has now between you and Henri; and yet you see what has become ofit. You thought yourself wonderfully clever then, Marie; you were quitea prophetess then. Why should not I now foresee a little. Why should notI also be clever?"

  "Well, Victorine, time will shew," said Marie, smiling through hertears; "but do not teach me to love him too dearly, till I know whetherhe will value my love. If he would prize it, I fear he might have it forthe asking for; but I will not throw it at his feet, that he should keepit loosely for awhile, and then scorn it, and lay it by."