Bonnie Prince Charlie : a Tale of Fontenoy and Culloden

  CHAPTER VI: The Convent of Our Lady.

  Arrived at Tours, Malcolm took a quiet lodging in a retired street.Colonel Hume had furnished him with a regular discharge, testifying thatthe bearer, Malcolm Anderson, had served his time in the 2d ScotchDragoons, and was now discharged as being past service, and that herecommended him as a steady man for any employment for which he might besuited. Malcolm showed this document to his landlord in order that thelatter might, as required by law, duly give notice to the police of thename and occupation of his lodger, and at the same time mentioned thatthe relations of his wife lived near Tours, and that he hoped throughthem to be able to obtain some sort of employment.

  As soon as they were settled in their lodgings they went out, and after afew inquiries found themselves in front of the convent of Our Lady. Itwas a massive building, in a narrow street near the river, to which itsgrounds, surrounded by a high wall, extended. None of the windows of thebuilding looked towards the street, upon which the massive gate, with asmall wicket entrance, opened.

  "What building is this?" Malcolm, in a careless tone, asked a woman whowas sitting knitting at her door nearly opposite the entrance. "I am astranger in Tours."

  "That needs no telling," the woman replied, "or you would have known thatthat is the convent of Our Lady, one of the richest in Touraine, and theysay in all France. Though what they do with their riches is more than Ican tell, seeing that the rules are of the strictest, and that no oneever comes beyond the gates. They have their own grounds down to theriver, and there is a walk along the wall there where they take the airof an evening when the weather is fine. Poor things, I pity them from mysoul."

  "But I suppose they all came willingly," Malcolm said; "so there is noneed for pity."

  "I don't know about willingly," the woman said. "I expect most of themtook the veil rather than marry the men their fathers provided for them,or because they were in the way of someone who wanted their lands, orbecause their lovers had been killed in the war, just as if grief for alover was going to last one's life. Besides, they are not all sisters.They say there's many a lady of good family shut up there till she willdo her father's will. 'Well, well,' I often says to myself, 'they mayhave all the riches of France inside those walls, but I would rather sitknitting at my door here than have a share of them.'"

  "You are a wise woman," Malcolm said. "There is nothing like freedom.Give me a crust, and a sod for my pillow, rather than gold plates insidea prison. I have been a soldier all my life, and have had my share ofhard knocks; but I never grumbled so long as I was on a campaign, thoughI often found it dull work enough when in garrison."

  "Oh, you have been a soldier! I have a brother in the regiment ofTouraine. Perhaps you know him?"

  "I know the regiment of Touraine," Malcolm said; "and there are no braverset of men in the king's service. What is his name?"

  "Pierre Pitou. I have not heard of him for the last two years. He is atall man, and broad, with a scar over the left eye."

  "To be sure, to be sure!" Malcolm said. "Of course, Pierre Pitou is oneof my best friends; and now I think of it, madam, I ought to know withoutasking, so great is his resemblance to you. Why, his last words to mewere, 'If you go to Tours, seek out my sister, who lives in a housenearly opposite the entrance to the convent of Our Lady;' and to think Ishould have forgotten all about it till I saw you!"

  Malcolm remained for a quarter of an hour chatting with the woman abouther brother, and then, promising to call again the next day in theevening to be introduced to her husband, he rejoined Ronald, who had beenwaiting at the corner of the lane, and had been fidgeting with impatienceat the long interview between Malcolm and the woman.

  "What have you been talking about all this time, Malcolm, and what couldyou have to say to a stranger?"

  "I have been telling her all about her brother, Pierre Pitou of theTouraine regiment, and how he distinguished himself at Dettingen, andwill surely be made a sergeant, with a hope some day of getting to be acaptain. I have quite won her heart."

  "But who is Pierre Pitou, and when did you know him?" Ronald askedsurprised.

  "He is a tall man with broad shoulders and a scar over his left eye,"Malcolm said laughing, and he then related the whole conversation.

  "But why did you pretend to this poor woman that you knew her brother?"

  "Because she may be very useful to us, Ronald; and if you can't find afriend in court, it's just as well to have one near court. She is agossiping woman, and like enough she may know some of the lay sisters,who are, in fact, the servants of the convent, and come out to buysupplies of food and other things, and who distribute the alms among thepoor. I don't know what advantage will come of it yet, Ronald; but I cansee I have done a great stroke of business, and feel quite an affectionfor my friend Pierre Pitou."

  Malcolm followed up the acquaintance he had made, and soon establishedhimself as a friend of the family. Ronald did not accompany him on any ofhis visits, for as the plan of proceeding was still undecided, he andMalcolm agreed that it was better that he should not show himself untilsome favourable opportunity offered.

  Sometimes towards evening he and Malcolm would take a boat and float downthe stream past the convent walls, and Ronald would wonder which of thefigures whose heads he could perceive as they walked upon the terrace,was that of his mother. It was not until Malcolm had become quite at homewith Madame Vipon that he again turned the conversation towards theconvent. He learned that she had often been inside the walls, for beforeher marriage she had worked at a farm whence the convent drew a portionof its supplies; milk, butter, and eggs, and she had often carriedbaskets to the convent.

  "Of course I never went beyond the outer court," she said; "but FarmerMiron's daughter--it was he owned the farm--is a lay sister there.She was crossed in love, poor girl. She liked Andre, the son of aneighbouring farmer, but it was but a small place by the side of that ofMiron, and her father would not hear of it, but wanted her to marryJacques Dubois, the rich miller, who was old enough to be her father.Andre went to the wars and was killed; and instead of changing when thenews came, as her father expected, and taking up with the miller, shehated him worse than ever, and said that he was the cause of Andre'sdeath; so the long and short of it was, she came as a lay sister to theconvent here. Of course she never thought of taking the vows, for to dothat here one must be noble and be able to pay a heavy dowry to theconvent.

  "So she is just a lay sister, a sort of servant, you know, but she is afavourite and often goes to market for them, and when she does shegenerally drops in here for a few minutes for a talk; for though she wasonly a child when I was at the farm we were great friends, and she hearsfrom me how all the people she used to know are getting on."

  "I suppose she knows all the ladies who reside in the convent as well asthe sisters?"

  "Oh, yes, and much better than the sisters! It is on them she waits. Shedoes not see much of the sisters, who keep to their own side of thehouse, and have very little to do with the visitors, or as one might callthem the prisoners, for that is what most of them really are."

  "Now I think of it," Malcolm said, "one of the officers I served underhad a relation, a lady, whom I have heard him say, when he was talking toanother officer, is shut up here, either because she wouldn't marry someone her father didn't want her to, I forget exactly what it was now. Letme see, what was her name. Elise--no, that wasn't it. Amelie--Ameliede Recambours--yes, that was it."

  "Oh, yes, I know the name! I have heard Jeanne speak of her. Jeanne saidit was whispered among them that she had really married somebody againsther father's will. At any rate she has been there ever so many years, andthey have not made her take the veil, as they do most of them if they areobstinate and won't give way. Poor thing! Jeanne says she is very prettystill, though she must be nearly forty now."

  "That is very interesting," Malcolm said; "and if you will not mind,Madam Vipon, I will write to the officer of whom I spoke and tell him hiscousin is alive and well. I was his servant
in the regiment, and I know,from what I have heard him say, he was very much attached to her. Therecan be no harm in that, you know," he said, as Madam Vipon lookeddoubtful; "but if you would prefer it, of course I will not say how Ihave heard."

  "Yes, that will be better," she agreed. "There is never any saying howthings come round; and though there's no harm in what I have told you,still it's ill gossiping about what takes place inside convent walls."

  "I quite agree with you, my dear Madam Vipon, and admire your discretion.It is singular how you take after your brother. Pierre Pitou had thereputation of being the most discreet man in the regiment of Touraine."

  Ronald was very excited when he heard from Malcolm that he had actuallyobtained news at second hand as to his mother, and it was with difficultythat his friend persuaded him to allow matters to go on as he proposed.

  "It will never do to hurry things now, Ronald; everything is turning outbeyond our expectations. A fortnight ago it seemed absolutely hopelessthat you should communicate with your mother; now things are in a goodtrain for it."

  Accordingly Malcolm made no further allusion to the subject to MadameVipon until a fortnight had passed; then he said, on calling on her oneday:

  "Do you know, my dear Madam Vipon, I have had a letter from the gentlemanof whom I was speaking to you. He is full of gratitude at the news I senthim. I did not tell him from whom I had heard the news, save that it wasfrom one of the kindest of women, the sister of an old comrade of mine.He has sent me this"--and he took out a small box which he opened, andshowed a pretty gold broach, with earrings to match--"and bid me togive it in his name to the person who had sent him this good news."

  "That is beautiful," Madam Vipon said, clapping her hands; "and I have sooften wished for a real gold broach! Won't my husband open his eyes whenhe sees them!"

  "I think, if I might advise, my dear madam," Malcolm said, "I should notgive him the exact history of them. He might take it into his head thatyou had been gossiping, although there is no woman in the world lessgiven to gossiping than you are. Still, you know what husbands are.Therefore, if I were you I would tell him that your brother Pierre hadsent them to you through me, knowing, you see, that you could not haveread a letter even if he could have written one."

  "Yes, perhaps that would be the best," Madam Vipon said; "but you hadbetter write to Pierre and tell him. Otherwise when he comes home, and myhusband thanks him for them, he might say he had never sent them, andthere would be a nice affair."

  "I will do so," Malcolm said; "but in any case I am sure your wit wouldhave come to the rescue, and you would have said that you had in factbought them from your savings; but that thinking your husband mightgrumble at your little economies you had thought it best to say that theycame from your brother."

  "Oh, fie, monsieur; I am afraid you are teaching me to tell stories."

  "That is a very hard word, my dear madam. You know as well as I do thatwithout a little management on both sides husbands and wives would neverget on well together; but now I want to tell you more. Not only does myold master write to say how glad he is to hear of his cousin's welfare,but he has told me a great deal more about the poor lady, and knowingyour kindness of heart I do not hesitate to communicate the contents ofhis letter to you. The Countess Amelie de Recambours was secretly marriedto a young officer, a great friend of my late master, and her father didnot discover it until after the birth of a child--a boy. Then she wasshut up here. The father got the boy safely away to Scotland, but he hasnow come back to France. I do not suppose the poor lady has ever heard ofher little son since, and it would be an act of kindness and mercy to lether know that he is alive and well."

  "Yes, indeed, poor creature," Madame Vipon said sympathetically. "Only tothink of being separated from your husband, and never hearing of yourchild for all these years!"

  "I knew your tender heart would sympathize with her," Malcolm said; "sheis indeed to be pitied."

  "And what became of her husband?"

  "I fancy he died years ago; but my master says nothing about him. He onlywrites of the boy, who it seems is so delighted with the news about hismother that he is coming here to see if it is possible to have aninterview with her."

  "But it is not possible," Madam Vipon exclaimed. "How can he see her,shut up as she is in that convent?"

  "Yes, it is difficult," Malcolm agreed; "but nothing is impossible, mydear madam, when a woman of heart like yourself takes a matter in hand;and I rely, I can tell you, greatly on your counsel; as to your goodwill,I am assured of that beforehand."

  "But it is quite, quite, quite impossible, I assure you, my good MonsieurAnderson."

  "Well, let us see. Now I know that you would suggest that the firstmeasure to be taken is to open communication between mother and son, andthere I heartily agree with you."

  "That would be the first thing of course, monsieur; but how is that to bedone?"

  "Now that is where I look to you, madam. Your friend Jeanne waits uponher, you see, and I know your quick wit will already have perceived thatJeanne might deliver a message. I am sure that she would never be yourfriend had she not a warm heart like your own, and it will need verylittle persuasion on your part, when you have told her this sad story, toinduce her to bring gladness to this unfortunate lady."

  "Yes; but think of the consequences, Monsieur Anderson: think what wouldhappen if it were found out."

  "Yes, if there were any talk of the countess running away from theconvent I would not on any condition ask you to assist in such a matter;but what is this--merely to give a message, a few harmless words."

  "But you said an interview, Monsieur Anderson."

  "An interview only if it is possible, my dear madam, that is quiteanother matter, and you know you said that it was quite impossible. Allthat we want now is just a little message, a message by word of mouthwhich not even the keenest eye can discover or prevent; there can be noharm in that."

  "No, I don't think there can be much harm in that," Madam Vipon agreed;"at any rate I will talk to Jeanne. It will be her day for going tomarket tomorrow; I will tell her the story of the poor lady, and I thinkI can answer beforehand that she will do everything she can."

  The following afternoon Malcolm again saw Madam Vipon, who told him thatalthough she had not actually promised she had no doubt Jeanne woulddeliver the message.

  "She will be out again on Saturday, monsieur, at nine in the morning, andif you will be here with the boy, if he has arrived by that time, youshall speak to her."

  At the time appointed Malcolm, with Ronald, attired now as a young Frenchgentleman, arrived at the house of Madam Vipon, who was warmly thanked byRonald for the interest she had taken in him.

  "My friend here has spoken to me in the highest terms of you, MadamVipon, and I am sure that all that he has said is no more than thetruth."

  "I am sure I will do all I can," replied Madam Vipon, who was greatlytaken by Ronald's appearance and manner; "it's a cruel thing separating amother from a son so many years, and after all what I am doing is nohanging matter anyway."

  A few minutes later Jeanne entered; she was a pleasant looking woman offive or six and twenty, and even her sombre attire as a lay sister failedto give a formal look to her merry face.

  "So these are the gentlemen who want me to become a conspirator," shesaid, "and to run the risk of all sorts of punishment and penalties formeddling in their business?"

  "Not so much my business as the business of my mother," Ronald said. "Youwho have such true heart of your own, for madam has told us something ofyour story, will, I am sure, feel for that poor lady shut up for fifteenyears, and knowing not whether her child is dead or alive. If we couldbut see each other for five minutes, think what joy it would be to her,what courage her poor heart would take."

  "See each other!" Jeanne repeated surprised. "You said nothing aboutthat, Francoise; you only said take a message. How can they possibly seeeach other? That's a different thing altogether."

  "I want you to take a
message first," Ronald said. "If nothing more canbe done that will be very much; but I cannot think but that you and mymother between you will be able to hit upon some plan by which we mightmeet."

  "But how," Jeanne asked in perplexity, "how could it possibly be?"

  "For example," Ronald suggested; "could I not come in as a lay sister? Iam not much taller than you, and could pass very well as a girl."

  Jeanne burst our laughing.

  "You do not know what you are saying, monsieur; it would be altogetherimpossible. People do not get taken on as lay sisters in the convent ofOur Lady unless they are known; besides, in other ways it would bealtogether impossible, and even if it were not it might be years beforeyou could get to speak to the countess, for there are only two or threeof us who ever enter the visitors' rooms; and lastly, if you were foundout I don't know what would be done to both of us. No, that would neverdo at all."

  "Well, in the next place, I could climb on to the river terrace at night,and perhaps she could come and speak to me there."

  "That is more possible," Jeanne said thoughtfully; "but all the doors arelocked up at night."

  "But she might get out of a window," Ronald urged; "with a rope laddershe could get down, and then return again, and none be the wiser."

  Jeanne sat silent for a minute, and then she asked suddenly:

  "Are you telling me all, monsieur, or are you intending that the countessshall escape with you?"

  "No, indeed, on my honour!" Ronald exclaimed. "I have nowhere where Icould take my mother. She would be pursued and brought back, and herposition would be far worse than it is now. No; I swear to you that Ionly want to see her and to speak to her, and I have nothing elsewhatever in my mind."

  "I believe you, monsieur," Jeanne said gravely. "Had it been otherwise Idare not have helped, for my punishment if I was discovered to have aidedin an escape from the convent would be terrible--terrible!" sherepeated with a shudder. "As to the other, I will risk it; for a gentlerand kinder lady I have never met. And yet I am sure she must be very,very brave to have remained firm for so many years. At any rate I willgive her your message."

  Ronald took from a small leather bag, which he wore round his neck, atiny gold chain with a little cross.

  "I had this round my neck when I was taken away as a child to Scotland.No doubt she put it there, and will recognize it. Say to her only: 'Hewhom you have not seen since he was an infant is in Tours, longing aboveall things to speak to you;' that is all my message. Afterwards, if youwill, you can tell her what we have said, and how I long to see her. Howhigh is her room from the ground? Because if it is high it will be betterthat I should climb to her window, than that she should descend andascend again."

  Jeanne shook her head.

  "That could not be," she said. "The visitors have all separate cells, butthe partitions do not go up to the ceiling; and even if you entered, nota word could be spoken without being overheard. But fortunately she is onthe first floor, and I am sure she is not one to shrink from so little amatter as the descent of a ladder in order to have an interview with herson."

  That same afternoon as Amelie de Recambours was proceeding from therefectory to her cell, following several of her fellow captives, herattendant Jeanne came out from one of the cells. Glancing behind to seethat no one was following, she put her finger on her lips and thenwhispered: "Make some excuse not to go into the garden with the othersthis evening. It is most important." Then she glided back into the roomfrom which she had come.

  The countess followed the others in a state of almost bewilderment. Forsixteen years nothing had occurred to break the monotony of herexistence. At first occasional angry messages reached her from herfather, with orders to join an application to the pope for a divorce; butwhen it had been found impossible to overcome her steady refusals themessages had at last ceased, and for years no word from the outer worldhad reached her, although she had learned from those who from time totime came to share her captivity what was passing outside. Whether herhusband was alive or dead she knew not. They had told her over and overagain that he was dead; but the fact that she had never had the optiongiven her of accepting another husband or taking the final vows kept hopealive. For she was convinced that if he was really dead, efforts would bemade to compel her to marry again.

  What, then, she wondered to herself, could this communication so secretlygiven mean? She regarded the lay sister who attended upon her as a happylooking young woman whose face was in strong contrast to most of thosewithin the walls of the convent; but she had exchanged but few words withher, knowing that she would be but a short time about her. For the policyof the abbess was to change the attendants upon the ladies in theircharge frequently, in order to prevent them from being tampered with, orpersuaded into conveying communications without the walls.

  "You look pale, Amelie," one of the other ladies said as they gathered ina group for a moment before proceeding to their respective apartments,where they were supposed to pass the afternoon in working, reading, andmeditation.

  "It is the heat," the countess said. "I have a headache."

  "You look it," the latter said. "It is not often that you have anythingthe matter with you. You know we all say that you must have aconstitution of iron and the courage of a Roland to be sixteen years hereand yet to have no wrinkle on your forehead, no marks of weeping roundyour eyes."

  The countess smiled sadly.

  "I wept the first six months almost without ceasing, and then I toldmyself that if I would be strong and resist I must weep no more. If abird in a cage once takes to pining he is sure not to live long. Thereare few of us here the news of whose death would not give pleasure tothose who shut us up, and I for one resolved that I would live in spiteof all."

  "Well, you must not get ill now, Amelie. We should miss you terribly inthe one hour of the day when we really live, the hour when we walk andtalk, and laugh if we can, on the river terrace.

  "I don't think I shall be able to come this evening," the countess said."I shall lie down and keep myself quiet. Tomorrow I hope to be myselfagain. It is a mere passing indisposition."

  The hours passed slowly as Amelie lay on her couch and wondered over thecoming interview. There were so many things which she might hear--thather father was dead; that her family had hopes at last of obtaining herrestoration to the world. That it could be a message from her husband shehad no hope, for so long as her father lived she was sure that hisrelease would never be granted. As to the child, she scarce gave it athought. That it had somehow been removed and had escaped the search thathad been made for it she was aware; for attempts had been made to obtainfrom her some clue as to where it would most likely have been taken. Shewas convinced that it had never been found, for if it had she would haveheard of it. It would have been used as a lever to work upon her.

  At last the hour when she was accustomed to go into the garden arrived,and as the convent bell struck seven she heard the doors of the othercells open, the sound of feet in the corridor, and then all became still.In a few minutes a step approached, and one of the sisters entered toinquire why she was not in the garden with the others.

  She repeated that her head ached.

  "You look pale," the sister said, "and your hand is hot and feverish. Iwill send you up some tisane. It is the heat, no doubt. I think that weare going to have thunder."

  In a few minutes a step was again heard approaching, and Jeanne enteredwith the medicament. As she closed the door the countess started into asitting position.

  "What is it, Jeanne? What is it that you have to say to me?"

  "Calm yourself, I pray you, countess," Jeanne said. "For both our sakes Ipray you to hear what I have to say calmly. I expect Sister Felicia willbe here directly. When she heard you were unwell she said she would comeup and see what you needed. And now, I will begin my message. In thefirst place I was to hand you this." And she placed in Amelie's hand thelittle necklet and cross.

  For a moment the countess looked at them wonderingly, and then
thereflashed across her memory a sturdy child in its nurse's arms, and a tallman looking on with a loving smile as she fastened a tiny gold chainround the child's neck. A low cry burst from her lips as she started toher feet.

  "Hush, lady, hush!" Jeanne exclaimed. "This is my message: 'He whom youhave not seen since he was an infant is in Tours, longing above allthings to speak to you.'"

  "My child! my child!" the countess cried. "Alive and here! My God, Ithank thee that thou hast remembered a friendless mother at last. Haveyou seen him, Jeanne? What is he like? Oh, tell me everything!"

  "He is a right proper young gentleman, madam. Straight and comely andtall, with brown waving hair and a bright pleasant face. A son such asany mother might be proud of."

  The countess suddenly threw her arms around Jeanne's neck and burst intotears.

  "You have made me so happy, Jeanne; happy as I never thought to be again.How can I thank you?"

  "The best way at present, madam," Jeanne said with a smile, "will be bydrinking up that tisane, and lying down quietly. Sister Felicia movesabout as noiselessly as a cat, and she may pop in at any moment. Do youlie down again, and I will stand a little way off talking. Then if shecomes upon us suddenly she will suspect nothing."

  The countess seized the bowl of tisane and drank it off, and then threwherself on the couch.

  "Go on, Jeanne, go on. Have pity on my impatience. Think how I am longingto hear of him. Did the message say he was longing to see me? But that isnot possible."

  "It is not quite impossible, madam; though it would be dangerous, verydangerous. Still it is not quite impossible."

  "How then could it be done, Jeanne? You know what our life is here. Howcan I possibly see my boy?"

  "What he proposes, madam, is this: that he should some night scale theriver wall, and await you on the terrace, and that you should descendfrom your window by a rope ladder, and so return after seeing him."

  "Oh, yes, that is possible!" the countess exclaimed; "I could knot my bedclothes and slide down. It matters not about getting back again, since wehave no ladder."

  "I can manage to bring in two light ropes," Jeanne said. "It would not dofor you to be found in the garden, for it would excite suspicion, and youwould never have a chance of doing it again. But it is not an easy thingto climb up a rope ladder with no one to help you, and you know I shallbe at the other end of the house."

  "That is nothing," the countess said. "Had I to climb ten times theheight, do you think I should hesitate for a moment when it was to see myson? Oh, Jeanne, how good you are! And when will it be?"

  "I will bring in the ropes next time I go out. Mind and place them inyour bed. You will know that that night at eleven o'clock your son willbe on the terrace awaiting you.

  As Jeanne finished speaking she placed her finger on her lips, for shethought she heard a slight noise without. The countess closed her eyesand then lay down on her pillow, while Jeanne stood as if watching her.The next instant the door opened noiselessly and Sister Felicia entered.She moved with a noiseless step up to Jeanne.

  "Is she asleep?" she whispered.

  "Oh no!" Jeanne answered in a louder voice, guessing that the sisterwould have heard the murmur of voices. "She has only just closed hereyes."

  The countess looked up.

  "Ah! is it you, sister? I have taken the tisane Sister Angela sent up,but my hands are burning and my head aches. The heat in chapel was sogreat I thought I should have fainted."

  "Your hands are indeed burning," the sister said, convinced, as soon asshe touched them, that the countess was really indisposed. "Yes; and yourpulse is beating quicker than I can count. Yes, you have a touch offever. I will mix you a draught and bring it up to you at once. Hark!that is the first peal of thunder; we are going to have a storm. It willclear the air, and do you even more good than my medicine. I will leaveyou here for tonight; if you are not better tomorrow we will move youinto the infirmary."

  The next morning Sister Felicia found her patient much better, though shestill seemed languid and weak, and was ordered to remain quietly in herapartment for a day or so, which was just what she desired, for she wasso filled with her new born happiness that she feared that if she wentabout her daily tasks as usual she should not be able to conceal from thesharp eyes of the sisters the joyousness which was brimming over in her,while had she laughed she would have astonished the inmates of the gloomyconvent.