“What an enchanting creature!” thought Corentin, as he left the house. “Shall I ever get her as a means to fortune and a source of delight? To fling herself at my feet! Oh, yes, the marquis shall die! If I can’t get that woman in any other way than by dragging her through the mud, I’ll sink her in it. At any rate,” he thought, as he reached the square unconscious of his steps, “she no longer distrusts me. Three hundred thousand francs down! she thinks me grasping! Either the offer was a trick or she is already married to him.”
Corentin, buried in thought, was unable to come to a resolution. The fog which the sun had dispersed at mid-day was now rolling thicker and thicker, so that he could hardly see the trees at a little distance.
“That’s another piece of ill-luck,” he muttered, as he turned slowly homeward. “It is impossible to see ten feet. The weather protects the lovers. How is one to watch a house in such a fog? Who goes there?” he cried, catching the arm of a boy who seemed to have clambered up the dangerous rocks which made the terrace of the Promenade.
“It is I,” said a childish voice.
“Ah! the boy with the bloody foot. Do you want to revenge your father?” said Corentin.
“Yes,” said the child.
“Very good. Do you know the Gars?”
“Yes.”
“Good again. Now, don’t leave me except to do what I bid you, and you will obey your mother and earn some big sous – do you like sous?”
“Yes.”
“You like sous, and you want to kill the Gars who killed your father – well, I’ll take care of you. Ah! Marie,” he muttered, after a pause, “you yourself shall betray him, as you engaged to do! She is too violent to suspect me – passion never reflects. She does not know the marquis’s writing. Yes, I can set a trap into which her nature will drive her headlong. But I must first see Hulot.”
Mademoiselle de Verneuil and Francine were deliberating on the means of saving the marquis from the more than doubtful generosity of Corentin and Hulot’s bayonets.
“I could go and warn him,” said the Breton girl.
“But we don’t know where he is,” replied Marie; “even I, with the instincts of love, could never find him.”
After making and rejecting a number of plans Mademoiselle de Verneuil exclaimed, “When I see him his danger will inspire me.”
She thought, like other ardent souls, to act on the spur of the moment, trusting to her star, or to that instinct of adroitness which rarely, if ever, fails a woman. Perhaps her heart was never so wrung. At times she seemed stupefied, her eyes were fixed, and then, at the least noise, she shook like a half-uprooted tree which the woodsman drags with a rope to hasten its fall. Suddenly, a loud report from a dozen guns echoed from a distance. Marie turned pale and grasped Francine’s hand. “I am dying,” she cried; “they have killed him!”
The heavy footfall of a man was heard in the antechamber. Francine went out and returned with a corporal. The man, making a military salute to Mademoiselle de Verneuil, produced some letters, the covers of which were a good deal soiled. Receiving no acknowledgment, the Blue said as he withdrew, “Madame, they are from the commandant.”
Mademoiselle de Verneuil, a prey to horrible presentiments, read a letter written apparently in great haste by Hulot: —
“Mademoiselle – a party of my men have just caught a messenger from the Gars and have shot him. Among the intercepted letters is one which may be useful to you and I transmit it – etc.”
“Thank God, it was not he they shot,” she exclaimed, flinging the letter into the fire.
She breathed more freely and took up the other letter, enclosed by Hulot. It was apparently written to Madame du Gua by the marquis.
“No, my angel,” the letter said, “I cannot go to-night to La Vivetiere. You must lose your wager with the count. I triumph over the Republic in the person of their beautiful emissary. You must allow that she is worth the sacrifice of one night. It will be my only victory in this campaign, for I have received the news that La Vendee surrenders. I can do nothing more in France. Let us go back to England – but we will talk of all this to-morrow.”
The letter fell from Marie’s hands; she closed her eyes, and was silent, leaning backward, with her head on a cushion. After a long pause she looked at the clock, which then marked four in the afternoon.
“My lord keeps me waiting,” she said, with savage irony.
“Oh! God grant he may not come!” cried Francine.
“If he does not come,” said Marie, in a stifled tone, “I shall go to him. No, no, he will soon be here. Francine, do I look well?”
“You are very pale.”
“Ah!” continued Mademoiselle de Verneuil, glancing about her, “this perfumed room, the flowers, the lights, this intoxicating air, it is full of that celestial life of which I dreamed – ”
“Marie, what has happened?”
“I am betrayed, deceived, insulted, fooled! I will kill him, I will tear him bit by bit! Yes, there was always in his manner a contempt he could not hide and which I would not see. Oh! I shall die of this! Fool that I am,” she went on laughing, “he is coming; I have one night in which to teach him that, married or not, the man who has possessed me cannot abandon me. I will measure my vengeance by his offence; he shall die with despair in his soul. I did believe he had a soul of honor, but no! it is that of a lackey. Ah, he has cleverly deceived me, for even now it seems impossible that the man who abandoned me to Pille-Miche should sink to such back-stair tricks. It is so base to deceive a loving woman, for it is so easy. He might have killed me if he chose, but lie to me! to me, who held him in my thoughts so high! The scaffold! the scaffold! ah! could I only see him guillotined! Am I cruel? He shall go to his death covered with caresses, with kisses which might have blessed him for a lifetime – ”
“Marie,” said Francine, gently, “be the victim of your lover like other women; not his mistress and his betrayer. Keep his memory in your heart; do not make it an anguish to you. If there were no joys in hopeless love, what would become of us, poor women that we are? God, of whom you never think, Marie, will reward us for obeying our vocation on this earth, – to love, and suffer.”
“Dear,” replied Mademoiselle de Verneuil, taking Francine’s hand and patting it, “your voice is very sweet and persuasive. Reason is attractive from your lips. I should like to obey you, but – ”
“You will forgive him, you will not betray him?”
“Hush! never speak of that man again. Compared with him Corentin is a noble being. Do you hear me?”
She rose, hiding beneath a face that was horribly calm the madness of her soul and a thirst for vengeance. The slow and measured step with which she left the room conveyed the sense of an irrevocable resolution. Lost in thought, hugging her insults, too proud to show the slightest suffering, she went to the guard-room at the Porte Saint-Leonard and asked where the commandant lived. She had hardly left her house when Corentin entered it.
“Oh, Monsieur Corentin,” cried Francine, “if you are interested in this young man, save him; Mademoiselle has gone to give him up because of this wretched letter.”
Corentin took the letter carelessly and asked, —
“Which way did she go?”
“I don’t know.”
“Yes,” he said, “I will save her from her own despair.”
He disappeared, taking the letter with him. When he reached the street he said to Galope-Chopine’s boy, whom he had stationed to watch the door, “Which way did a lady go who left the house just now?”
The boy went with him a little way and showed him the steep street which led to the Porte Saint-Leonard. “That way,” he said.
At this moment four men entered Mademoiselle de Verneuil’s house, unseen by either the boy or Corentin.
“Return to your watch,” said the latter. “Play with the handles of the blinds and see what you can inside; look about you everywhere, even on the roof.”
Corentin darted rapidly in the direction given him, and thought he recognized Mademoiselle de Verneuil through the fog; he did, in fact, overtake her just as she reached the guard-house.
“Where are you going?” he said; “you are pale – what has happened? Is it right for you to be out alone? Take my arm.”
“Where is the commandant?” she asked.
Hardly had the words left her lips when she heard the movement of troops beyond the Porte Saint-Leonard and distinguished Hulot’s gruff voice in the tumult.
“God’s thunder!” he cried, “I never saw such fog as this for a reconnaissance! The Gars must have ordered the weather.”
“What are you complaining of?” said Mademoiselle de Verneuil, grasping his arm. “The fog will cover vengeance as well as perfidy. Commandant,” she added, in a low voice, “you must take measures at once so that the Gars may not escape us.”
“Is he at your house?” he asked, in a tone which showed his amazement.
“Not yet,” she replied; “but give me a safe man and I will send him to you when the marquis comes.”
“That’s a mistake,” said Corentin; “a soldier will alarm him, but a boy, and I can find one, will not.”
“Commandant,” said Mademoiselle de Verneuil, “thanks to this fog which you are cursing, you can surround my house. Put soldiers everywhere. Place a guard in the church to command the esplanade on which the windows of my salon open. Post men on the Promenade; for though the windows of my bedroom are twenty feet above the ground, despair does sometimes give a man the power to jump even greater distances safely. Listen to what I say. I shall probably send this gentleman out of the door of my house; therefore see that only brave men are there to meet him; for,” she added, with a sigh, “no one denies him courage; he will assuredly defend himself.”
“Gudin!” called the commandant. “Listen, my lad,” he continued in a low voice when the young man joined him, “this devil of a girl is betraying the Gars to us – I am sure I don’t know why, but that’s no matter. Take ten men and place yourself so as to hold the cul-de-sac in which the house stands; be careful that no one sees either you or your men.”
“Yes, commandant, I know the ground.”
“Very good,” said Hulot. “I’ll send Beau-Pied to let you know when to play your sabres. Try to meet the marquis yourself, and if you can manage to kill him, so that I sha’n’t have to shoot him judicially, you shall be a lieutenant in a fortnight or my name’s not Hulot.”
Gudin departed with a dozen soldiers.
“Do you know what you have done?” said Corentin to Mademoiselle de Verneuil, in a low voice.
She made no answer, but looked with a sort of satisfaction at the men who were starting, under command of the sub-lieutenant, for the Promenade, while others, following the next orders given by Hulot, were to post themselves in the shadows of the church of Saint-Leonard.
“There are houses adjoining mine,” she said; “you had better surround them all. Don’t lay up regrets by neglecting a single precaution.”
“She is mad,” thought Hulot.
“Was I not a prophet?” asked Corentin in his ear. “As for the boy I shall send with her, he is the little gars with a bloody foot; therefore – ”
He did not finish his sentence, for Mademoiselle de Verneuil by a sudden movement darted in the direction of her house, whither he followed her, whistling like a man supremely satisfied. When he overtook her she was already at the door of her house, where Galope-Chopine’s little boy was on the watch.
“Mademoiselle,” said Corentin, “take the lad with you; you cannot have a more innocent or active emissary. Boy,” he added, “when you have seen the Gars enter the house come to me, no matter who stops you; you’ll find me at the guard-house and I’ll give you something that will make you eat cake for the rest of your days.”
At these words, breathed rather than said in the child’s ear, Corentin felt his hand squeezed by that of the little Breton, who followed Mademoiselle de Verneuil into the house.
“Now, my good friends, you can come to an explanation as soon as you like,” cried Corentin when the door was closed. “If you make love, my little marquis, it will be on your winding-sheet.”
But Corentin could not bring himself to let that fatal house completely out of sight, and he went to the Promenade, where he found the commandant giving his last orders. By this time it was night. Two hours went by; but the sentinels posted at intervals noticed nothing that led them to suppose the marquis had evaded the triple line of men who surrounded the three sides by which the tower of Papegaut was accessible. Twenty times had Corentin gone from the Promenade to the guard-room, always to find that his little emissary had not appeared. Sunk in thought, the spy paced the Promenade slowly, enduring the martyrdom to which three passions, terrible in their clashing, subject a man, – love, avarice, and ambition. Eight o’clock struck from all the towers in the town. The moon rose late. Fog and darkness wrapped in impenetrable gloom the places where the drama planned by this man was coming to its climax. He was able to silence the struggle of his passions as he walked up and down, his arms crossed, and his eyes fixed on the windows which rose like the luminous eyes of a phantom above the rampart. The deep silence was broken only by the rippling of the Nancon, by the regular and lugubrious tolling from the belfries, by the heavy steps of the sentinels or the rattle of arms as the guard was hourly relieved.
“The night’s as thick as a wolf’s jaw,” said the voice of Pille-Miche.
“Go on,” growled Marche-a-Terre, “and don’t talk more than a dead dog.”
“I’m hardly breathing,” said the Chouan.
“If the man who made that stone roll down wants his heart to serve as the scabbard for my knife he’ll do it again,” said Marche-a-Terre, in a low voice scarcely heard above the flowing of the river.
“It was I,” said Pille-Miche.
“Well, then, old money-bag, down on your stomach,” said the other, “and wriggle like a snake through a hedge, or we shall leave our carcasses behind us sooner than we need.”
“Hey, Marche-a-Terre,” said the incorrigible Pille-Miche, who was using his hands to drag himself along on his stomach, and had reached the level of his comrade’s ear. “If the Grande-Garce is to be believed there’ll be a fine booty to-day. Will you go shares with me?”
“Look here, Pille-Miche,” said Marche-a-Terre stopping short on the flat of his stomach. The other Chouans, who were accompanying the two men, did the same, so wearied were they with the difficulties they had met with in climbing the precipice. “I know you,” continued Marche-a-Terre, “for a Jack Grab-All who would rather give blows than receive them when there’s nothing else to be done. We have not come here to grab dead men’s shoes; we are devils against devils, and sorrow to those whose claws are too short. The Grande-Garce has sent us here to save the Gars. He is up there; lift your dog’s nose and see that window above the tower.”
Midnight was striking. The moon rose, giving the appearance of white smoke to the fog. Pille-Miche squeezed Marche-a-Terre’s arm and silently showed him on the terrace just above them, the triangular iron of several shining bayonets.
“The Blues are there already,” said Pille-Miche; “we sha’n’t gain anything by force.”
“Patience,” replied Marche-a-Terre; “if I examined right this morning, we must be at the foot of the Papegaut tower between the ramparts and the Promenade, – that place where they put the manure; it is like a feather-bed to fall on.”
“If Saint-Labre,” remarked Pille-Miche, “would only change into cider the blood we shall shed to-night the citizens might lay in a good stock to-morrow.”
Marche-a-Terre laid his large hand over his friend’s mouth; then an order muttered by him went from rank to rank of the Chouans suspended as they were in mid-air among the brambles of the slate rocks. Corentin, walking up and down the esplanade had too practiced an ear not to hear the rustling of the shrubs and the light sound of pebbles rolling down the sides of the precipice. Marche-a-Terre, who seemed to possess the gift of seeing in darkness, and whose senses, continually in action, were acute as those of a savage, saw Corentin; like a trained dog he had scented him. Fouche’s diplomatist listened but heard nothing; he looked at the natural wall of rock and saw no signs. If the confusing gleam of the fog enabled him to see, here and there, a crouching Chouan, he took him, no doubt, for a fragment of rock, for these human bodies had all the appearance of inert nature. This danger to the invaders was of short duration. Corentin’s attention was diverted by a very distinct noise coming from the other end of the Promenade, where the rock wall ended and a steep descent leading down to the Queen’s Staircase began. When Corentin reached the spot he saw a figure gliding past it as if by magic. Putting out his hand to grasp this real or fantastic being, who was there, he supposed, with no good intentions, he encountered the soft and rounded figure of a woman.
“The devil take you!” he exclaimed, “if any one else had met you, you’d have had a ball through your head. What are you doing, and where are you going, at this time of night? Are you dumb? It certainly is a woman,” he said to himself.
The silence was suspicious, but the stranger broke it by saying, in a voice which suggested extreme fright, “Ah, my good man, I’m on my way back from a wake.”
“It is the pretended mother of the marquis,” thought Corentin. “I’ll see what she’s about. Well, go that way, old woman,” he replied, feigning not to recognize her. “Keep to the left if you don’t want to be shot.”
He stood quite still; then observing that Madame du Gua was making for the Papegaut tower, he followed her at a distance with diabolical caution. During this fatal encounter the Chouans had posted themselves on the manure towards which Marche-a-Terre had guided them.
“There’s the Grande-Garce!” thought Marche-a-Terre, as he rose to his feet against the tower wall like a bear.
“We are here,” he said to her in a low voice.
“Good,” she replied, “there’s a ladder in the garden of that house about six feet above the manure; find it, and the Gars is saved. Do you see that small window up there? It is in the dressing-room; you must get to it. This side of the tower is the only one not watched. The horses are ready; if you can hold the passage over the Nancon, a quarter of an hour will put him out of danger – in spite of his folly. But if that woman tries to follow him, stab her.”
Corentin now saw several of the forms he had hitherto supposed to be stones moving cautiously but swiftly. He went at once to the guard-room at the Porte Saint-Leonard, where he found the commandant fully dressed and sound asleep on a camp bed.
“Let him alone,” said Beau-Pied, roughly, “he has only just lain down.”
“The Chouans are here!” cried Corentin, in Hulot’s ear.
“Impossible! but so much the better,” cried the old soldier, still half asleep; “then he can fight.”
When Hulot reached the Promenade Corentin pointed out to him the singular position taken by the Chouans.
“They must have deceived or strangled the sentries I placed between the castle and the Queen’s Staircase. Ah! what a devil of a fog! However, patience! I’ll send a squad of men under a lieutenant to the foot of the rock. There is no use attacking them where they are, for those animals are so hard they’d let themselves roll down the precipice without breaking a limb.”
The cracked clock of the belfry was ringing two when the commandant got back to the Promenade after giving these orders and taking every military precaution to seize the Chouans. The sentries were doubled and Mademoiselle de Verneuil’s house became the centre of a little army. Hulot found Corentin absorbed in contemplation of the window which overlooked the tower.
“Citizen,” said the commandant, “I think the ci-devant has fooled us; there’s nothing stirring.”
“He is there,” cried Corentin, pointing to the window. “I have seen a man’s shadow on the curtain. But I can’t think what has become of that boy. They must have killed him or locked him up. There! commandant, don’t you see that? there’s a man’s shadow; come, come on!”
“I sha’n’t seize him in bed; thunder of God! He will come out if he went in; Gudin won’t miss him,” cried Hulot, who had his own reasons for waiting till the Gars could defend himself.
“Commandant, I enjoin you, in the name of the law to proceed at once into that house.”
“You’re a fine scoundrel to try to make me do that.”
Without showing any resentment at the commandant’s language, Corentin said coolly: “You will obey me. Here is an order in good form, signed by the minister of war, which will force you to do so.” He drew a paper from his pocket and held it out. “Do you suppose we are such fools as to leave that girl to do as she likes? We are endeavoring to suppress a civil war, and the grandeur of the purpose covers the pettiness of the means.”
“I take the liberty, citizen, of sending you to – you understand me? Enough. To the right-about, march! Let me alone, or it will be the worse for you.”
“But read that,” persisted Corentin.
“Don’t bother me with your functions,” cried Hulot, furious at receiving orders from a man he regarded as contemptible.
At this instant Galope-Chopine’s boy suddenly appeared among them like a rat from a hole.
“The Gars has started!” he cried.
“Which way?”
“The rue Saint-Leonard.”
“Beau-Pied,” said Hulot in a whisper to the corporal who was near him, “go and tell your lieutenant to draw in closer round the house, and make ready to fire. Left wheel, forward on the tower, the rest of you!” he shouted.
To understand the conclusion of this fatal drama we must re-enter the house with Mademoiselle de Verneuil when she returned to it after denouncing the marquis to the commandant.
When passions reach their crisis they bring us under the dominion of far greater intoxication than the petty excitements of wine or opium. The lucidity then given to ideas, the delicacy of the high-wrought senses, produce the most singular and unexpected effects. Some persons when they find themselves under the tyranny of a single thought can see with extraordinary distinctness objects scarcely visible to others, while at the same time the most palpable things become to them almost as if they did not exist. When Mademoiselle de Verneuil hurried, after reading the marquis’s letter, to prepare the way for vengeance just as she had lately been preparing all for love, she was in that stage of mental intoxication which makes real life like the life of a somnambulist. But when she saw her house surrounded, by her own orders, with a triple line of bayonets a sudden flash of light illuminated her soul. She judged her conduct and saw with horror that she had committed a crime. Under the first shock of this conviction she sprang to the threshold of the door and stood there irresolute, striving to think, yet unable to follow out her reasoning. She knew so vaguely what had happened that she tried in vain to remember why she was in the antechamber, and why she was leading a strange child by the hand. A million of stars were floating in the air before her like tongues of fire. She began to walk about, striving to shake off the horrible torpor which laid hold of her; but, like one asleep, no object appeared to her under its natural form or in its own colors. She grasped the hand of the little boy with a violence not natural to her, dragging him along with such precipitate steps that she seemed to have the motions of a madwoman. She saw neither persons nor things in the salon as she crossed it, and yet she was saluted by three men who made way to let her pass.
“That must be she,” said one of them.
“She is very handsome,” exclaimed another, who was a priest.
“Yes,” replied the first; “but how pale and agitated – ”
“And beside herself,” said the third; “she did not even see us.”
At the door of her own room Mademoiselle de Verneuil saw the smiling face of Francine, who whispered to her: “He is here, Marie.”
Mademoiselle de Verneuil awoke, reflected, looked at the child whose hand she held, remembered all, and replied to the girl: “Shut up that boy; if you wish me to live do not let him escape you.”
As she slowly said the words her eyes were fixed on the door of her bedroom, and there they continued fastened with so dreadful a fixedness that it seemed as if she saw her victim through the wooden panels. Then she gently opened it, passed through and closed it behind her without turning round, for she saw the marquis standing before the fireplace. His dress, without being too choice, had the look of careful arrangement which adds so much to the admiration which a woman feels for her lover. All her self-possession came back to her at the sight of him. Her lips, rigid, although half-open, showed the enamel of her white teeth and formed a smile that was fixed and terrible rather than voluptuous. She walked with slow steps toward the young man and pointed with her finger to the clock.
“A man who is worthy of love is worth waiting for,” she said with deceptive gaiety.
Then, overcome with the violence of her emotions, she dropped upon the sofa which was near the fireplace.
“Dear Marie, you are so charming when you are angry,” said the marquis, sitting down beside her and taking her hand, which she let him take, and entreating a look, which she refused him. “I hope,” he continued, in a tender, caressing voice, “that my wife will not long refuse a glance to her loving husband.”
Hearing the words she turned abruptly and looked into his eyes.
“What is the meaning of that dreadful look?” he said, laughing. “But your hand is burning! oh, my love, what is it?”
“Your love!” she repeated, in a dull, changed voice.
“Yes,” he said, throwing himself on his knees beside her and taking her two hands which he covered with kisses. “Yes, my love – I am thine for life.”
She pushed him violently away from her and rose. Her features contracted, she laughed as mad people laugh, and then she said to him: “You do not mean one word of all you are saying, base man – baser than the lowest villain.” She sprang to the dagger which was lying beside a flower-vase, and let it sparkle before the eyes of the amazed young marquis. “Bah!” she said, flinging it away from her, “I do not respect you enough to kill you. Your blood is even too vile to be shed by soldiers; I see nothing fit for you but the executioner.”
The words were painfully uttered in a low voice, and she moved her feet like a spoilt child, impatiently. The marquis went to her and tried to clasp her.
“Don’t touch me!” she cried, recoiling from him with a look of horror.
“She is mad!” said the marquis in despair.
“Mad, yes!” she repeated, “but not mad enough to be your dupe. What would I not forgive to passion? but to seek to possess me without love, and to write to that woman – ”
“To whom have I written?” he said, with an astonishment which was certainly not feigned.
“To that chaste woman who sought to kill me.”
The marquis turned pale with anger and said, grasping the back of a chair until he broke it, “If Madame du Gua has committed some dastardly wrong – ”
Mademoiselle de Verneuil looked for the letter; not finding it she called to Francine.
“Where is that letter?” she asked.
“Monsieur Corentin took it.”
“Corentin! ah! I understand it all; he wrote the letter; he has deceived me with diabolical art – as he alone can deceive.”
With a piercing cry she flung herself on the sofa, tears rushing from her eyes. Doubt and confidence were equally dreadful now. The marquis knelt beside her and clasped her to his breast, saying, again and again, the only words he was able to utter: —
“Why do you weep, my darling? there is no harm done; your reproaches were all love; do not weep, I love you – I shall always love you.”
Suddenly he felt her press him with almost supernatural force. “Do you still love me?” she said, amid her sobs.
“Can you doubt it?” he replied in a tone that was almost melancholy.
She abruptly disengaged herself from his arms, and fled, as if frightened and confused, to a little distance.
“Do I doubt it?” she exclaimed, but a smile of gentle meaning was on her lover’s face, and the words died away upon her lips; she let him take her by the hand and lead her to the salon. There an altar had been hastily arranged during her absence. The priest was robed in his officiating vestments. The lighted tapers shed upon the ceiling a glow as soft as hope itself. She now recognized the two men who had bowed to her, the Comte de Bauvan and the Baron du Guenic, the witnesses chosen by Montauran.
“You will not still refuse?” said the marquis.
But at the sight she stopped, stepped backward into her chamber and fell on her knees; raising her hands towards the marquis she cried out: “Pardon! pardon! pardon!”
Her voice died away, her head fell back, her eyes closed, and she lay in the arms of her lover and Francine as if dead. When she opened her eyes they met those of the young man full of loving tenderness.
“Marie! patience! this is your last trial,” he said.
“The last!” she exclaimed, bitterly.
Francine and the marquis looked at each other in surprise, but she silenced them by a gesture.
“Call the priest,” she said, “and leave me alone with him.”
They did so, and withdrew.
“My father,” she said to the priest so suddenly called to her, “in my childhood an old man, white-haired like yourself, used to tell me that God would grant all things to those who had faith. Is that true?”
“It is true,” replied the priest; “all things are possible to Him who created all.”
Mademoiselle de Verneuil threw herself on her knees before him with incredible enthusiasm.
“Oh, my God!” she cried in ecstasy, “my faith in thee is equal to my love for him; inspire me! do here a miracle, or take my life!”
“Your prayer will be granted,” said the priest.
Marie returned to the salon leaning on the arm of the venerable old man. A deep and secret emotion brought her to the arms of her lover more brilliant than on any of her past days, for a serenity like that which painters give to the martyrs added to her face an imposing dignity. She held out her hand to the marquis and together they advanced to the altar and knelt down. The marriage was about to be celebrated beside the nuptial bed, the altar hastily raised, the cross, the vessels, the chalice, secretly brought thither by the priest, the fumes of incense rising to the ceiling, the priest himself, who wore a stole above his cassock, the tapers on an altar in a salon, – all these things combined to form a strange and touching scene, which typified those times of saddest memory, when civil discord overthrew all sacred institutions. Religious ceremonies then had the savor of the mysteries. Children were baptized in the chambers where the mothers were still groaning from their labor. As in the olden time, the Saviour went, poor and lowly, to console the dying. Young girls received their first communion in the home where they had played since infancy. The marriage of the marquis and Mademoiselle de Verneuil was now solemnized, like many other unions, by a service contrary to the recent legal enactments. In after years these marriages, mostly celebrated at the foot of oaks, were scrupulously recognized and considered legal. The priest who thus preserved the ancient usages was one of those men who hold to their principles in the height of the storm. His voice, which never made the oath exacted by the Republic, uttered no word throughout the tempest that did not make for peace. He never incited, like the Abbe Gudin, to fire and sword; but like many others, he devoted himself to the still more dangerous mission of performing his priestly functions for the souls of faithful Catholics. To accomplish this perilous ministry he used all the pious deceptions necessitated by persecution, and the marquis, when he sought his services on this occasion, had found him in one of those excavated caverns which are known, even to the present day, by the name of “the priest’s hiding-place.” The mere sight of that pale and suffering face was enough to give this worldly room a holy aspect.