Arsène found this very frivolous. But the old Duchesse smiled wisely and said: “Frivolity is often the affectation of a brave and noble man. Do you believe Carlo and Luigi are less heroic because they prefer sweet smells to foul? Or affect to pretend that the most important things in the world are the fragility of lace collars or the exact width of knee-ribbons?”
When the Marquis, in amusement, asked her why she did not appeal to the Cardinal to abandon his campaign, she stared at him in speechless outrage and imperious pride. It was some moments before she could speak, and then she said in a voice trembling with anger: “Monsieur le Marquis does not comprehend the dishonor of his suggestion!”
Others, in fear, exhorted her to use her influence, and excited such fury in her that they feared that she might collapse. Nevertheless, in her proud heart she was dismayed, for she knew that many priests, among them the frightful Capuchin, were accompanying Richelieu. She feared no ghastly and unspeakable reprisals against the Rochellais on the Cardinal’s part, but she had no illusions about the priests. However, she did not speak of her dismay. She was chronically exhausted with her unremitting efforts to maintain the courage and inflexible resolution of those about her.
And, it saddened her that she found less courage and pride and determination among the Rochellais, themselves, than among the two thousand foreigners who had come voluntarily to the beleaguered city, to give their arms and their lives to it in the name of freedom. These, above all, would suffer the merciless punishment of the Cardinal, even if the Rochellais were spared. And spared she believed they would be; they were Frenchmen.
CHAPTER LIII
The Duchesse de Rohan bitterly believed that for all the Frenchman’s protestations of noblesse oblige, he was the most deficient in it. She found this heroic and aristocratic spirit more in evidence among the foreigners of La Rochelle than in her own people.
She did not find it even in Arsène de Richepin. She found something greater; in its strength was a sustained rage, sorrow and vengefulness. Yet she deplored the absence of that finer, more steely and delicate spirit. She knew that noblesse oblige was the essence of a gentleman, and Arsène, in spite of his illustrious ancestry, was no gentleman.
Prudent and far-sighted, the Duchesse served only the simplest and most frugal of viands in her hôtel, even to the Mayor, whom she greatly respected, and to her numerous and constant guests. Her cellars were full, but God only knew how long they would remain that way, and she knew that, at the last, the aristocratic must be sacrificed to the mob, if La Rochelle was to withstand the siege. She had no delusions about the common mass. Under stress, and fear and starvation, they could be expected to become treacherous, stupid, panic-stricken and mad. Gentlemen could endure all sufferings, with silent smiles and graceful fortitude.
Once she said to Arsène: “You have asked me what sustains me. Is it Protestantism, a heroic ideal? I must confess it is not. But only in freedom, in Protestant liberalism, in the light and air of liberty, can the superior man exist, and bring enlightenment and peace to lesser men. Therefore, we must fight for these things, and die for them. The world must be made a secure place for the habitation of the superior, and to this end, the inferior man must be succored and saved.”
Another time she said: “Examine the blood, tradition and ancestry of the hero, and you will discover that, however apparently humble his origin, there is, in the background of his body and spirit a noble and lofty ancestor.”
She did not believe that the canaille had any virtue in them by the very fact that they were vulgar, as did some of the more enthusiastic and idealistic. Poverty, ignorance and stupidity did not argue a superior soul. In truth, these manifestations were the very essence of the creature hardly above the level of a swine or a dog. “As a spring, however deeply buried, encompassed about with stones and earth and rocky mountains, will find its way to the light and the sun to give refreshment to men, so will the superior man, however crushed by circumstance and suffering and adversity, break through his environment and rise triumphant,” she would say.
She was fond of mentioning a grizzled and elderly man who acted as her advisor and steward, friend and confidant, and who was now with her in La Rochelle. This man had been born on her father’s estates of a peasant wench and a travelling singer. Nevertheless, from the earliest day that he smiled, he displayed great talents, audacity, cleverness and wisdom. In some manner, he had induced a local priest to educate him, and when, in his enormous daring, he had broken into the library of the old Duc, that gentleman had been so impressed by the clear logic and grim courage and intelligence of this youth, that he did not have him hanged or even whipped, as the brutal old gentleman might easily have done as he had done to many others for less crimes. He became the youth’s patron. The best tutors were obtained for him. The Duc began to trust him in vital matters connected with the estates, and so honestly, wisely and fairly did his protégé conduct himself, that the Duc finally trusted him completely, and treated him as a son. When he died, he left a large fortune to the man, leaving him free to abandon the estates and make a greater fortune in the world. But the man refused to leave, and remained with the Duchesse when she married.
This man, Alphonse, who, nameless, had been given the surname of Champaigne by the Duc (who liked his jest), was now at the Hôtel de Rohan, devoted as always to his mistress, whom he served as advisor and friend and not as servant. He sat at her table, mingled with her guests, and entered all conversations. He was grave and respectful, yet full of pride, displaying none of the unpleasant arrogance of the vulgar man elected to a high position, and when he spoke, so astute were his words, so penetrating and logical, that all listened with admiration and thoughtfulness. And, as he spoke, the Duchesse would gaze at him with a proud and indulgent smile, glancing occasionally about the table to garner in the moved and aroused eyes of her guests as one gathers flowers to be presented to a noble personage.
Under a different delusion entirely, the Rochellais were grateful for this manifestation of tolerance and democracy in their Duchesse, for had she not received as a friend, as a diner at her table, one of the lowest among them? So, laboring under this delusion that the Duchesse had raised up one of these lowest, they argued that she had, for the poor and the dirty, the tenderest heart and most open regard. The Duchesse was wise enough to keep her true opinions to herself, for she knew how vital were morale and delusion for the canaille, if they were, at the final moment, to act as men and not beasts. Yet, she guarded her cellars. At the last, food would be a more persuasive argument for the canaille than any grand ideal.
She presided at her table, lit as it was by her great twin silver-gilt candelabra, and her guests were served on the finest of gold plate, and honored by the snowiest and most satiny of damask and the most brilliant of sparkling crystal. They were waited upon by corps of liveried servants. Only in one thing was the Duchesse lavish: the best of wines were invariably served, for, though she was willing to dine on dry crusts and fragments of stale meat, if need be, she would drink nothing but good wine. Gracious and noble, she would sit in her tall carved chair, like a queen, watchful of her guests’ comforts, skillfully directing the conversation in the most amiable and witty of channels, smiling and inclining her imperial head, and fanning herself lightly. The Marquis sat at her right hand. On her left sat Cecile, beautiful and radiant as only a young woman in love can be beautiful and radiant, arrayed in the gorgeous garments presented to her by the Duchesse. Next to Cecile, Arsène was seated. The other guests, including the Mayor, whom the Duchesse deeply respected, were seated in long lines about the balance of the table. Here were the prettiest and most aristocratic of the women of La Rochelle, the finest gentlemen, including many foreigners, and Alphonse Champaigne.
However fatigued and sad the Duchesse might be, she never canceled a dinner, for she knew the value of constant stimulation for the leaders of the people.
Tonight the German, Count Von Steckler, whom Arsène did not like at all, was
deeply and agitatedly in strong argument with Arsène. Perversely, out of Arsène’s constant nagging grief for Paul de Vitry and his brother, out of his malaise and weary heaviness of spirit, he was in a quarrelsome and contemptuous mood, hardly skirting the dangerous borders of courtesy and tact. Even the presence of Cecile could not divert his loud and too impetuous manner, nor soften his words, though she touched his hand under the tablecloth at intervals, in a soft and imploring manner.
Arsène had begun his attack on the German Count with exaggerated politeness, lifting his sharp black eyebrows sardonically over his dark and restless eyes. He had expressed his ironic surprise, which he declared was constant, that such as the Count had come to La Rochelle to fight and die for Frenchmen. Not, he added, lifting his hand with a viciously sweet smile, that the Rochellais, and himself, did not appreciate such noble self-sacrifice, but he confessed that he could not imagine himself in a similar position. It may be, he admitted, that he was first a Frenchman, and he had not yet arrived at that supreme state when politics and ideals could obliterate that fact.
Von Steckler had listened to this heavy irony in silence, but with vehement breathlessness, fixing his strong blue eyes intently on Arsène’s face. His milk-white skin became even more pale, so that it was transfucent and one could feel the beat of his emotions under it. There was something heroic and grand about his large blond handsomeness, something eager and touching.
He answered: “Monsieur, men of good will have no race. They belong to the brotherhood of man. In this struggle, which is only the prelude to more enormous struggles in Europe between the forces of liberalism and reaction, is a symbol. We doubt, all of us, that we shall be successful in the combat about to come, and we know that we shall surely die. But there is no other way of life possible for us. Should we surrender without a fight, the generations coming after us will surrender to the tyrants and oppressors of every age. But, remembering our devotion, our immolation, they shall take heart, lift up the swords fallen from our hands, and fight on to the ultimate victory of peace, liberty and fraternity.”
He glanced imploringly but with gentleness about the table, where the candlelight gave the illusion, as it flickered over the faces, that every one was either smiling or grimacing. But every eye seemed brighter and more living for that light.
He gazed, now, at the Spaniard and the Italian. Da Santa’s subtle narrow face, so handsome and clever, was suddenly enkindled, and his frivolity was gone. The Italian smiled, but in the fire of his eyes was a passionate affirmation of the German’s words. The Frenchmen listened politely, and with visible gratitude, but it was evident, with the exception of the Duchesse, that they remained somewhat mystified.
“I cannot be elated,” said Arsène, “at the thought that I may die in misery, or in exile, but that men yet unborn shall profit by my sacrifice.”
No one but the clever Duchesse saw the wondering grave look, full of sadness, which Cecile bent upon her lover, nor heard her stern sigh.
“And I,” said the German, in a low and deeper voice, “receive my elation from that very hope.” He looked at Arsène, and now a scarlet flush ran over his face, and his voice trembled: “Monsieur, may I ask, then, why you have come to La Rochelle?”
Arsène stared at him in affront, and replied coldly: “The Rochellais are my people. They are Frenchmen. I am a Huguenot. I come to defend my own.”
The German looked at the Spaniard and the Italian, and then gazed deeply and meditatively into space, as though he contemplated a great and shining vision. “And I,” he said, very softly, “have come to defend my own.”
There was a sudden silence in the dining hall, as if every one were stricken with a little shame. The Spaniard, with a slight and graceful gesture, lifted his wine glass to his lips, and smiled upon the German and the Italian, as though he drank a toast to that unseen vision.
Arsène was moved. He understood perfectly. But the perversity that bedeviled him in his grief and wretchedness, impelled him to shrug his shoulders lightly and smile.
“I confess that I see in this coming struggle only the weariness of the old religious wars. But there is some stubbornness in me which compels me to fight for my own brand of religion, against those of another whom I despise. For I shall not, by any man, be forced to conform to his convictions, or serve him with docile servility, or accept his superstitious and tyrannical dictums designed to destroy my soul and my mind—” He paused abruptly, and flushed.
The Duchesse smiled irrepressibly, and even among the less acute a smile appeared. But the look the German bent on him was suddenly tender and compassionate, and the Spaniard and the Italian looked at each other with sparkling eyes of intense amusement before they regarded Arsène with wise approval.
“Monsieur,” said the German, in that same soft tone, “we comprehend each other, do we not?”
Embarrassed, but still perverse, Arsène exclaimed: “This is but a series of religious wars—!”
“Impossible, Monsieur,” said the Count, with new relief and courage in his voice, and comradeship. “The terms are contradictory. No war is a religious war. Nor is this. It is only the age-old struggle between the oppressor and the oppressed, with God leaving the decision in the hearts of those who hate tyranny and cruelty. If their hatred is not strong enough, then they must go down in ignominy, with the knowledge that they have betrayed their children.”
But Arsène, for all the acknowledgment in his own heart, continued to bicker, as a man afflicted with a great pain displays petty irritability in order to hide his suffering. The German listened, always gently, understanding. The Marquis yawned. The others resumed conversation among themselves. The Spaniard bent amorously towards Cecile’s beautiful profile and whispered with adoration: “Madame is simpatica!”
The girl was uneasy before all this gallantry, and kept glancing pleadingly at Arsène to deliver her. But he was engrossed in his obstinate quarrelsomeness. The Duchesse frowned a little. She had begun to love Cecile, who, though deprived of the graces of a courtier by the necessities of her birth and her former life, had a native dignity and aristocracy, and the instinctive breeding of a grande dame. Cecile, arrayed in shimmering golden silk, with her white bosom daringly exposed, and her light lustrous hair piled in waves and curls upon a small head poised gracefully on her slender snowy neck, was no peasant wench but a gracious and delicate lady.
“It is not the sort of sweet stern creature to take a lover, in consolation,” thought the Duchesse. “Ah, that is a pity! She will be miserable with that perverse and vital young scoundrel.”
Nevertheless, when she looked at Arsène, her clear direct glance, so uncompromising and disingenuous, would soften.
This, then, was La Rochelle, with the Cardinal approaching the walls and causeways of the city, with high hopes and determination among the people, with devoted and dedicated foreigners to lead, inspire and fight side by side with those they had come to serve out of pure high-mindedness and a passion for justice and liberation.
The Marquis, after a discreet knock, entered the apartments of Arsène and Cecile. One glance at the young people confirmed his pessimistic belief that all was not well. Cecile sat before a long pier mirror brushing and combing her shining hair. She was clad in a loose gown of white silken stuff, and, as she rose at the Marquis’ entrance, her hair mingled with the foaming whiteness and gave her the look of a proud young angel.
Arsène was standing near a high window, whose diamond panes looked out upon the dark night-shrouded gardens. He was gnawing a finger restlessly. His white shirt was open at the throat, and his brown neck was visible. He turned at his father’s entrance, and favored the Marquis with a scowl and a complete silence.
The apartments were beautiful, if austere, and the candles flaming at the walls and upon graceful inlaid tables picked out the curve of a chair, the glimmer of a commode or wardrobe, the rich colors of the Persian rugs. The Marquis, as always, cast an approving glance about the great room. Then he said irately:
/>
“Your conversation, my rascal, was not edifying this evening. Had you seen the smiles, you would have retired in confusion.”
“My conversation is my own!” exclaimed Arsène, with anger. But misery stood starkly in his eyes. The Marquis looked at the girl. She was very pale, but retained her silent dignity. Is he weary of her, so soon? asked the Marquis anxiously of himself. But when he saw her expression as she gazed fleetingly at his son, his anxiety was dispelled. For, if reserved, that expression was compassionate.
The Marquis loved Cecile with a father’s affection. He favored her with a loving smile, to which she replied with a sudden softening and the appearance of tears in her eyes. The Marquis seated himself, with a sigh. Despite the splendor of his dress, he appeared, all at once, to be an old and withered man, too tired for speech, sick of living, and futile. His face fell into dissipated and exhausted lines, and he blinked as if his vision had become dull. He took a pinch of snuff in his fingers, stared at it as if he had never seen it before, then, with a despairing gesture he replaced it in the enameled box the Cardinal had so admired, and put it back in his pocket. He flicked his perfumed kerchief across his nose, and sighed again. He leaned back in his chair, and closed his eyes.
Arsène watched all this with knitted brows and jerking lips. Then, unable to maintain an obdurate and disdainful pose any longer, he approached his father and laid his hand contritely on the other’s shoulder, and pressed it.
The Marquis did not open his eyes, but asked, with unusual and weary softness: “What ails you, my son?”
Arsène was silent a moment, then he cried out with vehement passion: “I do not know! But I shall not listen to your reproaches, as I have not listened to Cecile’s!” He added, in a more temperate tone, but one still filled with despair: “All appears useless to me. I am weighted down. I have no hope, for La Rochelle, for France. I feel the age and stony heaviness of all Europe upon me. I long for freedom, for air, for light, for new adventures and new opportunities, for a new land where a man can breathe and start afresh!”