Which? Or, Between Two Women Page 6

  CHAPTER V.

  IN WHICH HISTORY IS MINGLED WITH ROMANCE.

  The real awaking of the country, the real beginning of the Revolutiondates from the year 1789. What France had endured for half a centuryevery one knows. Every one also knows that, becoming weary of poverty,of the tyranny of the powerful, of the weakness of the king, of thesquandering of her treasure and of the intrigues of those in authority,and compelled to find a remedy within herself, the country demanded theconvocation of the Etats Generaux. The government at last decided toaccede to the entreaties that were heard on every side; and it wasduring the early part of the year 1789 that France was called upon toelect her representatives; while, from one end of the kingdom to theother, there was a general desire for a great and much needed reform.

  The south did not take a less active part in this movement than the restof the country. Provence and Languedoc were shaken to their centres. Inall the region round about the Gardon--at Nimes, in Beaucaire in Arles,in Remoulins--political clubs were formed. The condition of thepeasantry, who had previously been condemned to a sort of slavery,suddenly changed. The weak became the strong; the timid became theaudacious; the humble became the proud; and from the mouth of anoppressed people issued a voice demanding liberty. This movement hadbeen ripe for some time among the lower classes, but it suddenly burstforth and revealed itself in all its mighty power in the convocation ofthe Etats Generaux.

  In Nimes and the surrounding country, the agitation caused by this greatevent was increased by the remembrance of the religious warfare that hadbeen waged there between the Protestants and Catholics for more than acentury. This enmity blazed out afresh, greatly aggravating thebitterness naturally caused by the elections. Were not these last a merepretext invented by one sect to conceal their evil designs against theother? Was it only a conflict between the champions of the old and ofthe new regime, or were these excited men eager to take up arms oneagainst the other, mere fanatics ready to condemn others to martyrdomand to accept it themselves? History has not yet decided this importantquestion; and sectarian passion has not yet allowed an impartial criticto be heard. Still, it is a well-known fact that throughout the provinceof Languedoc, and notably in Nimes, the political excitement was of themost virulent character. Blood flowed there even sooner than in Paris.The massacres at Nimes preceded the celebrated massacres of September bymore than two years; and in Avignon, though this city was as yet Frenchonly in its situation and in the language of its inhabitants, the reignof terror was at its height in the mouth of October, 1791.

  In 1789, while the elections were in progress, signs of these comingevents began to manifest themselves. In Nimes the Catholics andProtestants were bitterly denouncing one another, quarrelling over thelocal offices, and striving in every possible way to gain theascendancy. The Marquis de Chamondrin was a Catholic, but he was verytolerant and liberal in his opinions. One of his ancestors, at theimminent risk of exile, had boldly opposed the revocation of the Edictof Nantes. The Marquis shared the opinions of his ancestor; despotismfound no champion in him. He had read the philosophers of his time, andhe was convinced that equality in rights if not in fortunes could beestablished between men. He recognized the necessity of reform, but hedetested violence; and he exerted all his influence to securemoderation, to reconcile opponents and to draw men together. Thus atNimes, on more than one occasion, he had prevented the effusion ofblood. But the passions were so strongly excited in that locality atthat time that his efforts as a moderator gained him but one thing,isolation. He drew down upon himself the hatred of those whom he wishedto calm; he did not even win the friendship of those whom he desired toprotect, and who, unless their peril was extreme, boldly declared thatthey were able to protect themselves. His popularity, cleverlyundermined by his enemies, soon became impaired, and, weary of thedissensions in which he was embroiled in spite of all his efforts, heshut himself up in his chateau, resolving to keep a philosophical watchover events, but to take no part in them.

  A few days later, the Etats Generaux assembled at Versailles; but theirtime was spent in bickerings and in sterile discussions while oppressedand panting France vainly awaited the salutary reforms they wereexpected to effect. From May, the date of their meeting, to the immortalnight of the Fourth of August, when the nation entered upon an era thatwas to atone for so many disasters, one event succeeded another withbewildering rapidity. The victorious resistance of the Third Estate tothe pretensions of the nobility and clergy; the proclamation of theking; the movement of the French Guards; their imprisonment; theirdeliverance by the people; the intrigues of the Orleans party; thetaking of the Bastile; the death of Foulon and of Berthier came oneafter another to accelerate the progress of the revolutionary movementwhich was already advancing rapidly.

  In 1790, famine was at the gates of Paris and threatened to spread overall France. Armed brigands, taking advantage of the general disorder,began to lay waste the provinces. In many parts of the country, thepeasants joined them; in others, they resisted them. These brigandsattacked the chateaux, they burned several and pillaged others. Finally,dread of a foreign foe was added to all these fears, and the peopleaccused the nobility of calling a foreign nation to their assistance.

  These are some of the many events that served to distract Philip deChamondrin's mind from his disappointment and delay his marriage toAntoinette de Mirandol. Anxious as the Marquis was to hasten thisunion, he shared the general apprehension too strongly to urge his sonto marry at such a time. The inmates of the chateau were troubled anddepressed. Gloomy news from the outer world reached them daily. Theking's life was believed to be in danger. A dozen times Philip hadalmost decided to start for Versailles to die, if need be, in theservice of his sovereign; but Coursegol succeeded in convincing him thathis presence was a necessity at Chamondrin, and that he could not goaway without leaving the Marquis and Antoinette exposed to the gravestperil. Coursegol had several reasons for dissuading his young masterfrom his purpose, the chief of which was that he did not wish to gohimself. In case of actual danger, he could be of great service to theMarquis. Thanks to his plebeian origin, to his many acquaintances and tohis reputation as a good fellow in Nimes and in Beaucaire, he couldmingle with the crowd, converse with the peasantry, question theartisans and discover their temper and plans. In case the chateau wasattacked, he would also be able to make many friends for the Marquis andcall quite a number of defenders to his aid. Then, too, he could notendure the thought of going so far from Arles while Dolores was there,alone and defenceless, and might need his protection at any moment.

  So Philip did not go, but together with his father and Coursegol hebegan to make arrangements for the defence of the chateau. Theyaugmented their force by the addition of three or four men upon whosefidelity they could implicitly rely. Coursegol was also promised theservices of several peasants. The Marquis frequently visited the littletown of Remoulins, that lay a few miles from the chateau on the otherside of the Gardon, and he still had a few warm friends there, some ofwhom had desired to send him to the Etats Generaux. They, too, promisedto come to his assistance in case of an attack on the castle. If theformer masters of Chamondrin had been tyrants this was now forgotten.The large possessions which would have endowed them with feudal rightswere theirs no longer. For several years Dolores and the Marquise deChamondrin had endeavored to obliterate the memory of the past byvisiting the poor and the sick around them, and Antoinette de Mirandolhad perpetuated the memory of their good deeds by imitating theirexample.

  Hence they had nothing to apprehend from those in their immediateneighborhood; but they had every reason to fear the many lawless bandsthat were now scouring that region of country, ostensibly attractedthere by the fair that was to be held at Beaucaire in the month ofJuly--bands of armed and desperate men, who plundered and pillaged andlived by rapine. The Bohemians, too, who passed the Pont du Gard eachspring and autumn, inspired the inmates of the chateau with no slightdread, as it seemed more than likely they would take advantage of thegeneral
disorder that prevailed to commit depredations upon any isolateddwellings that tempted their cupidity. Moreover, north of Nimes therewere several villages whose fanatical and intensely excited inhabitantswere strongly urged by their leaders to make an attack upon theCatholics, who were accused of opposition to the reform movement. It wasrumored that these people intended to march upon Nimes, burn the cityand put its population to the sword. Was there not good reason to fearthat these men, if they succeeded in this undertaking, would take itinto their heads to spread death and destruction beyond the walls ofNimes. No apprehension was ridiculous, no prudence was exaggerated at atime when all France trembled.

  Such were the causes that had induced the Marquis and his son to preparefor an attack on the castle. In spite of their precautions, they couldnot conceal these preparations from Antoinette. She courageouslyassisted them, almost thankful for the perils that menaced their safety,since they detained Philip at the chateau. She loved him even moredevotedly than ever, and, if she shuddered sometimes at the thought thata life so precious to her might be endangered at any moment, shecomforted herself by thinking she would at least have the consolation ofdying with him.

  But the Marquis was beset by many scruples. He felt that he did wrong toexpose Antoinette to such danger, since she did not yet belong to hisfamily and since he had promised her dying father to protect her and herfortune until the day of her marriage. He finally decided to send her toEngland, which she would find a safer retreat than the Chateau deChamondrin. He confided this project to Antoinette, but he had scarcelybroached the subject when, the girl interrupted him with these words:

  "If you love me, do not separate me from Philip!"

  The Marquis could not resist this entreaty. Antoinette remained.

  While these events were taking place at the chateau, Dolores, immured inthe convent at Arles, was patiently awaiting the termination of theimprisonment she had voluntarily imposed upon herself. After a sojournof several months in this saintly house, she experienced a great relief.Solitude had calmed her sorrow. She still suffered, she would alwayssuffer, but she gathered from her faith and from noble resolutionsbravely accomplished that peace and resignation which a merciful Heavenbestows upon all sad hearts that appeal to it of aid.

  Dolores, as we have said before, entered the convent not as a novice,but as a boarder. From the founding of the institution, that is to say,from the beginning of the seventeenth century, the Carmelite nuns ofArles, in obedience to the wishes of their foundress, to whoseliberality they owed the building and grounds which they occupied, hadoffered an asylum to all gentlewomen who, from one cause or another,desired to dwell in the shelter of those sacred walls without obeyingthe rules of the order. Disconsolate widows, mothers mourning the lossof their children, and orphans affrighted by the world found a peacefulhome there and a quiet life which was not unfrequently a step towardsthe cloister.

  When Dolores went to live at the convent, the boarders were seven innumber, all older than herself. They accorded a cordial welcome to theyoung girl, who was soon at ease in their midst. Their life was verysimple. They lived in the convent, but not within the cloister. Risingat six in the morning, they attended service in the chapel with the nunsfrom whom they were separated by a grating. Between the hours of morningand evening service they were at liberty to spend their time in whateverway they chose. They all ate at the same table. Dolores spent her timein working for the needy and for the institution. She made clothing forpoor children; she embroidered altar cloths for the chapel; she visitedthe sick and destitute. Thus her life was peacefully devoted to prayerand good works. She frequently received tidings from the chateau,sometimes through letters written by the Marquis, sometimes throughCoursegol, who came to see her every month. She took a lively interestin all that pertained to those whom she had left only to give them a newproof of her affection and devotion. When Coursegol visited her, sheinvariably spoke of her longing to return to Chamondrin. She hoped thatPhilip and Antoinette would soon be married, and that she would be ableto go back to the loved home in which her happy childhood had beenspent. These hopes were never to be realized; that beloved home she wasdestined never to behold again.

  Early in June, Coursegol, in accordance with his usual habit, left thechateau to pass a few days in Arles. He reached the city on thefourteenth, and, after visiting Dolores, left for home on the morning ofthe sixteenth.

  He made the journey on foot. The sky was slightly veiled by fleecy,white clouds that tempered the heat of the sun. The road between Arlesand Nimes is charming, and Coursegol walked blithely along, inhalingwith delight the fresh morning breeze that came to him laden with thevivifying fragrance of the olive and cypress. As he approachedBeaucaire, a pretty village on the bank of the Rhone, he noticed that anunusual animation pervaded the place. Groups of peasants stood here andthere, engaged in excited conversation; every face wore an expression ofanxiety. He thought at first that these people must be going orreturning from some funeral; but he soon noticed that many were armed,some with guns, some with scythes. On reaching the centre of the town,he found the market-place full of soldiers; officers were giving excitedorders. It looked as if the town were arming to defend itself.

  "What does all this mean?" inquired Coursegol, addressing a little groupof townspeople.

  "Why, do you not know what has happened?" one man replied, in evidentastonishment.

  "I have heard nothing. I have just arrived from Arles."

  "Nimes has been pillaged. The peasantry from the Cevennes have descendedupon the city and massacred three hundred people--laborers, bourgeois,priests and nuns. They are now masters of the place, and it is fearedthat a detachment of them is coming in this direction. We are makingready to receive them."

  "What! Have they advanced beyond Nimes?" inquired Coursegol, appalled bythis news.

  "Some of them advanced last night as far as the Pont du Gard. Therethey sacked and burned the Chateau de Chamondrin!"

  A ghastly pallor overspread Coursegol's features; he uttered a cry ofhorror.

  "What is the matter?" asked the man who had just apprised him of thisterrible calamity.

  "My masters!--where are my masters?" cried poor Coursegol.

  Then, without waiting for the response which no one could give, hedarted off like a madman in the direction of the Pont du Gard.

  Although the events that took place in Nimes early in 1790 have neverbeen clearly explained by an impartial historian, we have reason tosuppose that the public sentiment prevailing there at the time wasunfavorable to the Revolution. The Catholics of the south becameindignant when they learned that the Assembly wished to reform theCatholic Church without consulting the Pope. From that day, they werethe enemies of the Revolution. Their protests were energetic, and fromprotests they passed to acts. The Catholics took up arms ostensibly todefend themselves against the Protestants, but chiefly to defend theirmenaced religion. The Protestants, who were in communication with theirreligious brethren in Paris and Montauban, were also ready to take thefield at any moment. A regiment was quartered in the city. Thesympathies of the officers were with the Catholics, who represented thearistocracy in their eyes; the soldiers seemed to favor theProtestants--the patriots. This division brought a new element ofdiscord into the civil war. This condition of affairs lasted severalmonths. A conflict between some of the National Guards--Catholics--and acompany of dragoons was the signal for a struggle that had becomeinevitable. The Protestants of Nimes sided with the dragoons; theCatholics espoused the cause of the National Guards. Several of theselast were killed. This happened on the 13th of June. The following day,bands of peasants, summoned to the aid of the Protestants from thecountry north of Nimes, descended upon the city. They entered it in anorderly manner, as if animated by peaceful intentions; but many of themen were either half-crazed fanatics or wretches who were actuated by adesire for plunder. They ran through the streets, becoming more and moreexcited until their fury suddenly burst forth and they rushed wildlyabout the city, carrying death an
d devastation in their track. There wasa Capuchin monastery at Nimes. They invaded this first, slaying thepriests at the foot of the altar in the church that still retains theineffaceable stain of their blood. The assassins then hastened to themonastery of the Carmelites. The monks had fled. They sacked the church,and then plundered a number of private houses. The bandits showed nomercy. They opened a vigorous cannonade upon the tower of Froment wheremany had taken refuge. In three days three hundred persons perished.

  At the news of these massacres a cry of rage and terror rose from theCatholic villages on the banks of the Rhone and the Gardon. The cry wasthis:

  "They are slaughtering our brothers at Nimes!"

  The influential men immediately assembled and counselled the frightenedand indignant populace to take up arms in their own defence. The tocsinwas sounded, and in a few hours several hundred men had assembled nearthe Pont du Gard, ready to march upon Nimes and punish the wretches whohad slain the innocent and defenceless. By unanimous consent the Marquisde Chamondrin was made one of the leaders of this hastily improvisedarmy. He accepted the command with a few eloquent words, urging his mento do their duty, and the army took up its line of march. Some gypsies,who chanced to be near the Pont du Gard at the time, brought up therear, hoping that the fortunes of war would gain them an entrance intothe city of Nimes that they might pillage and steal without restraint.

  This manifestation of wrath on the part of the inhabitants of thesurrounding country terrified the assassins, and most of them took toflight; but those who lived in Nimes and who were alarmed for their ownsafety and that of their families resolved to avert the blow thatmenaced them.

  There are traitors in every party, men ready to sell or to be sold; menfor whom treason and infamy are pathways to wealth. There were some ofthese men in the Catholic ranks, and promises of gold induced them to goout and meet the approaching army and assure its leaders that order wasre-established at Nimes and that their entrance into the city would onlyoccasion a fresh outbreak. These emissaries accomplished their mission;and that same evening all these men who had left home that morningthirsting for vengeance returned quietly to their firesides.

  But, unfortunately, the Marquis de Chamondrin had taken such an activepart in this demonstration that he had deeply incensed the assassins;and the more ferocious of them resolved to wreak vengeance upon him bypillaging and burning his chateau. A conspiracy was organized, and thefollowing night about forty men of both parties, or rather the scum andrefuse of both, started for Chamondrin. They knew the castle had but asmall number of defenders, and that Coursegol, the most formidable ofthese, was absent at the time. They also knew that the isolatedsituation of the chateau afforded its inmates little chance of succor,and that, if they could succeed in surprising it, they could accomplishtheir work of destruction before the inhabitants of Remoulins and thesurrounding villages could come to the aid of the Marquis and hishousehold. The plan was decided upon in a few hours; and the disorderthat prevailed throughout the country, the inertness of the authoritiesand the want of harmony among the soldiery, all favored its execution.

  About nine o'clock in the evening, the bandits stole quietly out ofNimes. They reached the Pont du Gard a little before midnight and haltedthere to receive their final instructions before ascending the hill uponthe summit of which stood the Chateau de Chamondrin.

  Here, they were joined by a dozen or more Bohemians who were encampednear by, the same men who had accompanied the Catholics on theirexpedition that same morning. They approached the bandits in the hopethat a new army was in process of organization for an attack upon thecity, and that they might accompany it. When they saw the band proceedin the direction of the chateau, they straggled along in the rear. Likehungry vultures, they seemed to scent a battle from which they mightderive some profit.

  The household at Chamondrin chanced to be astir late that evening. TheMarquis, Philip, Antoinette, the cure of Remoulins and two or threelanded proprietors living in the vicinity were in the drawing-room.After such a day of excitement, no one could think of sleep. They werediscussing the events that had occurred at Nimes, and deploring thedeath of the victims. They were anxiously asking if the blood that hadbeen shed would be the last, and were endeavoring to find means toprevent the repetition of such a calamity. When the clock struck thehour of midnight, the cure of Remoulins, an energetic old man namedPeretty, rose to return to the village. The other visitors, whose homeslay in the same direction and whose carriages were waiting in thecourt-yard, followed his example. Suddenly a frightened cry broke thesilence of the night. Followed by the others present, Philip rushed tothe door. The cry had come from the man who guarded the gate.

  "We are attacked!" exclaimed this man on seeing Philip.

  At a glance the latter understood the extent and the imminence of theirdanger. The bright moonlight revealed a terrible sight. The besiegershad found only one opening through which they could effect an entranceinto the chateau; but even there a heavy gate composed of strong ironbars opposed their passage. This gate was very high, and the bars weresecurely fastened to each other, while the top was surmounted by sharppickets. Still, the bandits were not discouraged. Half-crazed with furyand with wine, they climbed this formidable barrier with the hope ofleaping over it. It seemed to bend beneath their weight. The massivebolts trembled, the ponderous hinges creaked, as fifty or morerepulsive-looking wretches, the majority of them clad in rags, hurledthemselves against the gate, uttering shrieks of baffled rage. One wouldhave supposed them wild beasts trying to break from their cage.

  "To arms!" cried Philip.

  He ran to the lower hall, which was used as an armory. His father, thevisitors and the servants, who were all devoted to the Chamondrinfamily, followed him, while Antoinette stood watching in alarm thisformidable horde of invaders.

  The Abbe Peretty advanced towards the intruders.

  "What do you desire, my friends?" he asked, calmly.

  "Open the gates!" responded the less excited among the crowd.

  "We want Chamondrin's head!" exclaimed others.

  "Have you any just cause of complaint against the Marquis?" persistedthe abbe, striving to calm the furious throng.

  "Death to the aristocrats!" the crowd responded with one voice.

  One man went so far as to point his gun at the venerable priest, who,without once losing his sang-froid, recrossed the court-yard, keepinghis face turned towards the excited band outside, and rejoined hiscompanions, who under the leadership of the Marquis and Philip were justemerging from the hall, armed to the teeth.

  "They will not listen to reason," said the Abbe Peretty, calmly!

  "Then we will defend ourselves, and woe be unto them!"

  As he uttered these words, the Marquis turned to Mademoiselle deMirandol, around whom the women of the chateau were crowding,half-crazed with terror.

  "Go into the house; your place is not here," said he.

  "My place is by your side!" replied Antoinette.

  "No, my dear Antoinette; it is madness to expose yourself unnecessarily.I know you are courageous, but you can be of far greater service to usby quieting these poor, shrieking creatures."

  While this conversation was going on, Philip advanced to the gate. Itstill resisted the efforts of the assailants, some of whom wereendeavoring to climb over the roofs of the pavilions that stood oneither side of the entrance to the chateau.

  "I command you to retire!" cried Philip.

  Angry threats of "Death" resounded afresh.

  "Then I hold you responsible for any disasters that may occur!" Philipreplied.

  At the same moment the impetuous youth raised his gun and fired,wounding one of the men who had climbed the gate and was preparing toleap down into the court-yard. Imprecations broke forth anew and thecombat began. Nothing could be heard but a vigorous fusillade,accompanied by the shouts of the besiegers and the besieged. These lastwere so few in number that they dare not dispatch one of their littlecompany to Remoulins for aid. Besides, they were
not sure that the bandnow assailing them would not be followed by others that would waylaytheir messenger; but they hoped that their shouts and the sound of thefiring would arouse the inhabitants of the sleeping town. The Marquisfought with the desperation of a man who is defending his outragedfireside, and Philip struggled with the energy of despair. He wasfighting for his father and for Antoinette. He shuddered when he thoughtof the horrible fate that awaited the young girl if these brutes, moreformidable than any wild beasts, were victorious. Even the Abbe Perettyhad armed himself. The servants and the friends of the house conductedthemselves like heroes, but, unfortunately, Coursegol was far fromChamondrin, and the defenders of the chateau sadly missed his valiantarm.

  The assailants were still crowding against the gate, uttering howls offury. They were poorly armed. Only a few had guns, the others brandishedhatchets and pickaxes, crying:

  "Tear down the gate!"

  But, when the firing began, they left this dangerous position andretired perhaps twenty feet, where they hid behind the trees, firing atrandom, sometimes trying to advance, but always driven back with loss.Five or six of them were already stretched upon the grass, but thedefenders of the castle were unhurt. The gypsies had retreated to asafe distance, where they stood impatiently awaiting the conclusion ofthe struggle, ready to fall upon the vanquished as soon as they becameunable to defend themselves.

  Meanwhile Antoinette, surrounded by four or five women, was upon herknees in the drawing-room, praying fervently, her heart sick withanguish and fear. How ardently she wished herself a man that she mightfight by Philip's side! The firing suddenly ceased. Philip entered theroom. His face was pale, but stained here and there by smoke and powder;his head was bare; his clothing disordered. Grief and despair wereimprinted upon his countenance.

  "We must fly!" he exclaimed.

  And taking Antoinette by the hand he led her through the long corridoropening into the park. The frightened women followed them. In the parkthey met the defenders of the chateau, carrying a wounded man in theirarms.

  Antoinette uttered a cry of consternation.

  "Ah! I would have fought until death!" exclaimed Philip, despairingly,"but we were overpowered; the gate was torn down; my father was wounded.He must be saved from the hands of the bandits at any cost, so we wereforced to retreat."

  Antoinette walked on like one in a frightful dream. If Philip had notsupported her she would have fallen again and again. They walked besidethe Marquis, who was still conscious, though mortally wounded in thebreast. When he saw his son and Antoinette beside him, he looked at themwith sorrowful tenderness, and even attempted to smile as if toconvince them that he was not suffering.

  The little band proceeded with all possible speed to a smallsummer-house concealed in the pines and shrubbery. Nothing could be moremournful than this little procession of gloomy-visaged men and weepingwomen, fleeing through the darkness to escape the assassins who were nowmasters of the castle, destroying everything around them and makingnight hideous with their ferocious yells. At last they reached thesummer-house. The Marquis was deposited upon a hastily improvised bed;the Abbe Peretty, assisted by Philip and Antoinette, attempted to dresshis wound; and two men started in the hope of reaching Remoulins by acircuitous route, in order to bring a physician and call upon theinhabitants of the village for aid.

  An hour went by; it seemed a century. In the gloomy room where theseunfortunates had taken refuge no sound broke the stillness save themoans of the Marquis and the voice of the Abbe Peretty, as he utteredoccasional words of consolation and encouragement to assuage the muteanguish of Philip and the despair of the weeping Antoinette. Then allwas still again.

  Philip's agony was terrible. His father dying; his home in the hands ofvandals, who were ruthlessly destroying the loved and cherished objectsthat had surrounded him from infancy, Antoinette, crushed by thedisasters of this most wretched night, this was the terrible picturethat rose before him. To this torture was added the despair caused by asense of his utter powerlessness. Gladly would he have rushed back tothe chateau to die there, struggling with his enemies, but he wasprevented by the thought of Antoinette, who was now dependent upon himfor protection. He was engrossed in these gloomy thoughts when a strangecrackling sound attracted his attention, and at the same moment a man,who had ventured out into the park to watch the proceedings of the enemyrushed back, exclaiming:

  "They are burning the chateau!"

  The tidings of this new misfortune overpowered Philip and almost berefthim of reason. He ran to the door. A tall column of flame and smoke wasmounting to the sky; the trees were tinged with a crimson light, and thecrackling of the fire could be distinctly heard above the hooting andyelling of the infuriated crowd. His eyes filled with tears, but he wasdashing them away preparatory to returning to his father when the AbbePeretty joined him.

  "Courage, my poor boy!" said the good priest.

  "I will be brave, sir. I can cheerfully submit to the loss of ourpossessions, but to the death of my father, I----"

  He could not complete the sentence. The abbe, who had lost all hope, wassilent for a moment; then he said:

  "There is something I must no longer conceal from you. After the chateauis destroyed, I fear these wretches will search the park in order todiscover our retreat. I do not fear for myself. I shall remain with theMarquis. They will respect a dying man and a white-haired priest; butyou, Philip, must remain here no longer. Make your escape withMademoiselle de Mirandol without delay."

  "I cannot abandon my father," replied Philip. "If our hiding-place isdiscovered, we will defend ourselves--we will fight until death!"

  The priest said no more, and they both returned to the bedside of theMarquis. On seeing them, the latter, addressing his son, inquired:

  "The chateau is on fire, is it not?"

  Philip's reply seemed to cause the Marquis intense anguish; but, after amoment, he motioned to his son to come nearer; then he said.

  "Listen, Philip. You must leave France. This unhappy country is about toenter upon a series of misfortunes which neither you nor I can foresee,and of which you will certainly be a victim if you remain here. You mustdepart, Philip. Think, my son, you will be the sole heir of the house ofChamondrin."

  "You will recover, father."

  "No; death is close at hand. It is so near that I cannot deceive myself;so, Philip, I wish you to grant one of my dearest wishes. I wish, beforeI die, to feel assured that the family of Chamondrin will beperpetuated. Consent to marry Antoinette."

  Philip, as we have said before, had already tacitly consented to thismarriage. Since he had lost all hope of winning Dolores, the thought ofwedding another was no longer revolting to him.

  "I am ready to obey you, father," he replied, "but will you allow me toremind you that Mademoiselle de Mirandol is rich and that I havenothing."

  The Marquis checked him and, calling Antoinette, said in a voice thatwas becoming weaker and weaker:

  "Antoinette, Philip is poor; his position is gone; the favor of the kingwill avail him nothing in the future, and the power has passed into thehands of our enemies; nevertheless, will you consent to marry him?"

  "If he desires it," exclaimed Mademoiselle de Mirandol, "and never was Iso grateful for my wealth!"

  Philip pressed the hand of the noble girl, and the face of the Marquiswas transfigured with joy in spite of his agony. Then M. de Chamondrinresumed:

  "You must leave the country, my children, and marry as soon ascircumstances will permit. You must stay in foreign lands until Francerecovers her reason. Promise to obey me."

  They promised in voices choked with sobs.

  "Abbe," continued the Marquis, "bless these children!"

  Without exchanging another word, Philip and Antoinette, in obedience tothe wishes of the dying man, knelt before the priest. The latter,employing the solemn formula which makes bride and bridegroomindissolubly one, asked Mademoiselle de Mirandol if she would acceptPhilip as her husband, and Philip if he would take Antoinette
for hiswife, and when they had answered in the affirmative, he added:

  "I cannot here, and under such circumstances, unite you by the bonds ofmarriage; but until the vows you have just exchanged can be consecratedby the church, I, as the witness of this covenant, shall pray God tobless you."

  "I am satisfied," said the Marquis, faintly. "Father, grant meabsolution."

  Antoinette and Philip remained upon their knees. A quarter of an hourlater the Marquis expired. Just as he breathed his last, the same manwho discovered the firing of the chateau, and who had again returned tothe park to watch the movements of the enemy, burst into the room.

  "They are searching the park! They are coming this way!" he cried,breathlessly.

  The cure, who had been engaged in prayer, rose.

  "Fly!" he exclaimed.

  "My place is here!" replied Philip.

  Antoinette gave him a look of approval.

  "In the name of the Father, who has commanded you to love, I order youto fly!"

  And, as he spoke, the priest pointed to the door.

  "But who will give him burial?" exclaimed Philip.

  "I will; go!" replied the abbe.

  Antoinette and Philip were compelled to obey.

  The priest was left alone with the lifeless body of M. de Chamondrin. Heknelt, and, as calmly as if he were in his own presbytery, recited theprayers the church addresses to Heaven for the souls of the dead. Theflickering light of a nearly consumed candle dimly illumined the room.The world without was bathed in a flood of clear moonlight. Themarauders ran about the park, shouting at the top of their voices,uprooting plants and shrubbery, breaking the statuary and the marblevases, and expending upon inanimate objects the fury they were unable tovent upon the living.

  Suddenly, one of them discovered the summer-house. The door was open; heentered. Some of his comrades followed him. A priest with white, flowinglocks rose at their entrance, and, pointing to the couch upon which thedead body of the Marquis was reposing, said:

  "Death has passed this way! Retire--"

  He was not allowed to complete his sentence. A violent blow from an axefelled him to the ground, his skull, fractured. They trampled his bodyunder foot, then one of the assassins applied a burning torch to thefloor. The flames rose, licking each portion of the building with theirfiery tongues. Then the shameless crowd departed to continue their workof destruction. The sacking of the chateau occupied three hours. Thepillagers had not retired when the approach of the National Guard ofRemoulins, coming too late to the assistance of the Marquis, wasdiscovered by one of the ruffians, and they fled in every direction toescape the punishment they merited.

  When Coursegol, wild with anxiety, reached the chateau on the day thatfollowed this frightful scene, only the walls remained standing. Of theimposing edifice in which he was born there was left only bare andcrumbling walls. The farm-house and the summer-house had shared the samefate; and in the park, thickly strewn with prostrate trees and debris, acrowd of gypsies and beggars were searching for valuables spared by thefire. Coursegol could not repress a cry of rage and despair at thesight; but how greatly his sorrow was augmented when he learned that twodead bodies, those of the Marquis and of the Abbe Peretty had beendiscovered half-consumed in the still smoking ruins.

  Were Philip and Antoinette also dead? No one knew.

  One person declared that he saw them making their escape. Thisuncertainty was more horrible to Coursegol than the poignant realitybefore his eyes. He flung himself down upon the seared turf, and there,gloomy, motionless, a prey to the most frightful despair, he weptbitterly.