The Czar: A Tale of the Time of the First Napoleon/Chapter 9

by Deborah Alcock

CHAPTER IX.

CLEMENCE.

"Vive, vive le Roi!
  A bas la République!"—Vendéan War-Song.

IT is the fair and pleasant land of France—a land of corn-fields and orchards and sunny garden-plots, where quiet villages nestle in shady nooks, and old châteaux stand proudly amidst their sheltering woods. You feel everywhere that this land has been for many a century tilled and cared for by the hand of man; that generation after generation sleeps in peace beneath the shadow of its gray old churches. Long ages of toil and civilization have left their impress here, and the present is the heir of a glorious and venerable past.

Yet, perhaps no country has ever suffered more. War after war has swept over it; cruel oppression made the Revolution a terrible necessity; and, again, the excesses of the Revolution made men forget the crimes of the despotism that engendered it. And in the days of which we write there brooded over all the portentous shadow of another despotism—almost crushing enough to recall the worst days of Louis, falsely called the Magnificent, and of his thrice-accursed successor.

Still, even in those evil times many a secluded nook seemed to be hidden in the hollow of His hand, so quietly did it slumber throughout all—escaping not indeed occasional suffering, but anything like general ruin.

One such nook—a little pastoral village not a hundred miles from Paris—had in its immediate neighbourhood a spot yet more secluded, where a noble family of the "old régime," who otherwise might have wandered homeless exiles from their native land, found a welcome refuge. The simple four-roomed cottage, with the vine trained over its tiny porch, would have been an unpretending dwelling for the village smith or carpenter. Yet few could have looked on it attentively, even from the outside, and none could have entered it, without feeling sure that its inmates inherited the traditions of centuries of refinement and cultivation.

The morning sun of one of the earliest days of 1812 was streaming into the little porch. The weather was mild and beautiful—unusually so for the season. One person was enjoying it thoroughly—a lad of about seventeen, who reclined in the porch, intent upon a book, while the sunshine streamed brightly over him, and the breeze gently lifted his soft brown hair. The expression of his face was rather sweet than strong—his forehead was good, his eyes large and dark, his mouth well-formed and sensitive, but lacking as yet the look of resolution that might come with riper manhood.

So absorbed was he in his book that he did not hear an approaching footstep; but then it was a very light one. The young girl who came out from the parlour to join her brother was his senior by a year, and looked even more. She was tall, but her slight figure was well formed and graceful. Her eyes were dark, like her brother's; and her hair a glossy brown, very fine and soft. It did not wave or float, but was neatly coiled about a head which might have served a sculptor for his model. There was no weakness in the delicate lines of her face, though there was much tenderness. Her complexion was pale; but there was in her cheek a hint of possible colour, which came and went with every passing emotion. No one thought of calling Clémence de Talmont pretty, but in the eyes of the few who loved her she was beautiful as the dream of a poet.

"Henri," she said, in a gentle but decided voice—"Henri."

He looked up slowly, and said with a reluctant air, "Surely it is not time for breakfast."

"Mother has had her coffee, and yours is ready whenever you wish for it. It is not that—"

"I had rather wait," said Henri, ignoring her last words. "I want to see the end of Pizarro's expedition;" and he turned over a page of his book.

"What are you reading?" asked Clémence, suppressing something like a sigh.

"Les Incas de Marmontel—a beautiful book," he added, rousing himself. "Those old heathen monarchs, who lived for their people, tried to make others happy, placed their glory in being loved, not feared, ought to have had a better fate."

"I think you might find a better book," returned his sister, with a slight tinge of asperity. "Marmontel was a friend of the Revolution—a philosopher, a deist."

"Ah, sister mine, you would rather see me reading the Confessions of St. Augustine," said Henri with a good-humoured laugh. "But there is a time for all things; and I cannot think ill of books that make me love God, and his beautiful world, and the creatures he has made."

"True, brother," said Clémence earnestly and with a rising colour; "only take care that the God you love is the God of the Bible and the Church, not the God of the philosophers and the savants. But"—after a pause, and with a change of tone—"but, Henri, will you not run down to the village before our mother leaves her room, and see whether there is any placard on the Mairie?"

Henri closed his book and stood up, the anxiety in his sister's face reflecting itself, though faintly, upon his. "Why such haste?" he asked.

"Babette told me this morning that she hears there is a new 'senatus consultus.'"

Henri's thoughts turned rapidly from the mild sway of the Incas, of which he had been dreaming, to the iron despotism of Napoleon, for him no dream, but a stern and terrible reality. "If there were twenty conscriptions," he muttered hastily, "you know I am under age."

"I do not know it," Clémence answered. "The curé says he fears all are liable who will complete their eighteenth year in 1812. That is why I want you to go and see whether the placard is there, before we alarm our mother. But take your coffee first, brother. I will bring it to you, if you like."

She brought him a cup of fragrant café-au-lait, and a fresh roll, prepared that morning by her own hands. He had just begun to eat and drink when a voice from an adjoining room like her own, gentle and musical, but decided—called, "Clémence."

"Don't delay about the Mairie," she said as she hastened in. "I will tell our mother you are going for a walk."

Grave, sweet, and dignified was the lady who stood at the table in the little parlour. Her face was worn and pale; the hair that appeared beneath her snowy cap was slightly silvered; and in her demeanour something of antique stateliness combined with the peculiar and inimitable grace of the old régime.

A dress of purple brocade, rich and stiff, lay on the table before her. "Come here, Clémence," she said; "I want to make this dress fit you."

But Clémence shrank back. "Oh no, no, mother!" she said, with an air of pain.

"But yes," returned Madame de Talmont, in a quiet, peremptory voice. "Not a word, my daughter; it is yours." And seating herself, she took up a pair of scissors, and began to rip off some antiquated trimming from the sleeve.

Clémence felt almost as if a living thing she loved was being hurt. Tears quivered in her eyes, and the colour rose to her cheek as she laid her hand on her mother's arm. "Mother, listen to me," she pleaded. "Do not touch that gown. It would never suit me. Is it well, think you, that I should go to mass on Sundays looking like a princess, while the few who know of our existence know also that we have scarcely bread to eat from day to day? Is it suitable? And besides, dear mother," she continued timidly, "you know I do not love gay clothing. I do not think it becomes a girl who, however unworthily, still desires and endeavours to lead a religious life."

"Be as religious as you please, my dear daughter," said Madame de Talmont, with a slight smile, "but be dutiful also, and believe that I know how Mademoiselle de Talmont ought to appear at mass much better than she does herself."

"Mother, that is not all," Clémence resumed. "I had rather keep that gown of yours all my life as it is now. It is part of my childhood; and, mother dear," she continued sadly, "there is so little of our childhood left to Henri and me. One of the earliest things I can remember is your showing that dress to me and telling me how my father brought it home to you the first time he went to Paris after his marriage, and how you wore it when you stood at the window of our old château in the Bocage, and watched him as he rode out with his men to join the Royalists."

"The last time I ever saw him—until I stood beside his death-bed. Ah, my child! that war in La Vendée has broken many a woman's heart."

"Still, mother, it was a just war. My father did well to die for his King."

"That is understood. My children and I have a consolation denied to those whose dear ones perish every day in the frightful wars of this Corsican usurper.—But do not trouble thy heart about the old gown, Clémence. Silk and brocade and such things fade and perish and are lost; but thy father's last look as he rode away—that remains, that is mine for ever. Does not the Bible say that 'the things which are seen are temporal, but the things which are not seen are eternal'?"

"Yes; but—is that what it means, mother?"

"That may not be all it means, but it may mean that too."

Clémence yielded. She was accustomed to give way to her mother; and indeed it is not usually the strong in heart who dispute pertinaciously about trifles,—like good soldiers, they reserve their fire until the right moment. A consultation followed; and certain mysteries of cutting and placing, of letting out and taking in, were decided upon and arranged. While they were discussing the pattern of the sleeves, Madame de Talmont paused to ask, in a kind of parenthesis, "What has become of Henri? I have not seen him this morning."

"He has gone for a walk."

No more was said until the ladies had entered upon the mechanical part of their task, and deft, skilful fingers were busy with needles and thread. Then Madame de Talmont resumed, "Is it a fancy of mine, or is it true, that Henri becomes every day more like our cousin Louis?"

"That, of course, I cannot tell," Clémence replied, smiling, "since, as you are aware, mother, I have never seen Cousin Louis; though I find it hard to believe that. From my earliest childhood I have thought of him and pictured him, until he has become a kind of friend to me—like the saints, or the holy recluses of Port-Royal."

"He was no saint, my daughter," returned Madame de Talmont rather bitterly. "And an evil friend he proved himself to thy dear father."

"Yet, mother, he must have been one of the most lovable of men."

"He was fascinating, I do not deny. Besides, he was the head of our house—or, at least, he became so on the death of his father. And thy father could never forget that his own orphaned childhood and youth had been protected by the parents of Louis, and surrounded with an atmosphere of love and tenderness. Often has he talked to me of his happy boyhood at Vernier, where he and his cousin Louis were like brothers, and Victoire was the cherished sister of both."

"Cousin Victoire! Ah, mother, I wish you would tell me more about her. I have always felt such a romantic interest in this beloved and beautiful sister of Cousin Louis, and yet, somehow, I know very little about her."

"There is little to know, child," said the mother, with perhaps a shade of embarrassment.

"One thing perplexes me," Clémence resumed thoughtfully. "I remember to have heard you say that for generations the first daughter of our house has been always called Victoire. Now, I am not Victoire. Nor do I bear your name, mother, nor that of my father's mother, Léonie."

"Child, ere thou wert born, the name Victoire had become a sound of woe to thy father's ear. Once, perhaps, it may have been too sweet;—I cannot tell. Brought up together as they were, and with the grateful, reverential love he bore to all the De Talmonts of Vernier, it would have been but natural if—Still, when all things changed—"

"Mother, how was it that they changed so sadly? What could Cousin Victoire have done to grieve my father? As for Cousin Louis, I know that he became a Jacobin, a bonnet rouge."

"Too true. Louis de Talmont—the child of a family of unstained honour and unshaken loyalty, the nephew of the gallant prince who died so nobly on the scaffold for his King^[1]—betrayed every sacred memory of the past, every holy hope for the future. I marvel that the dust of his ancestors did not rise from the battle-fields of their country to curse the wretch who bore part in the murder of his King." A red glow suffused the pale cheek of Madame de Talmont as she spoke, showing how hotly the fire of passion burned beneath its covering of proud and dignified self-control. With this lady of the old régime the affections of the heart were strong, but the traditions and prejudices of a class were stronger yet.

"But Victoire?" Clémence ventured after a pause.

"Ah, Victoire! Poor child! she was more sinned against than sinning. But her life was wrecked; and that sin lies at the door of Louis de Talmont. In those early days of the Revolution many foreigners came to Paris. With one of these, who was young, brilliant, wealthy, and noble, Louis formed, after his fashion, a violent friendship. M. le Prince, as we used to call him, had a fine figure, a handsome face, and the most splendid diamonds I have ever seen. But there was an end of his perfections; and great as they may have been, they could scarcely atone for a head and heart as empty as air. Being a stranger, with nothing to lose, and no knowledge of our past to restrain him, he went farther than even his misguided teachers. There was no excess of the mob, in those evil days, in which he did not bear a part. In the Jacobin halls his voice was the loudest, his counsel the most violent; and ever on his lips was that misused, delusive cry, 'Liberty, Equality, Fraternity.' It was to this man that Louis de Talmont must needs give the hand of his sister, the cherished daughter of his house."

"Poor Victoire! How terrible for her! How miserable she must have been! And this foreign prince—did he perish on the scaffold, like our Cousin Louis?"

"No; he escaped that fate. When the storm he and his friends had evoked passed beyond their control, and the Revolution began to devour its own children, he found safety in flight."

"And Victoire?"

"His wife went with him. I believe he took her to his own country. It is but justice to say that he seemed to love her well. But her place here knew her no more; she has been dead ever since to all who held her dear. Her name has passed into eternal silence. And when God gave you to us, your father said to me, 'M'amie, for many years now the world has been talking of nothing but peace and love and the universal brotherhood of man; but because in the brotherhood of man men have forgotten the Fatherhood of God, their peace is ending in war, and their love in hatred such as earth has seldom seen. By the time this babe is a woman grown, perhaps once again the world will have tired of war and victory' (only in this way did he utter the name), 'and may be glad to be reminded of the existence of such things as clemency and forgiveness; so I propose that we call the daughter of our house Clémence.' Accordingly, Clémence you are."

"It is quite right, mother. I like my name. Clemency should always follow victory.—Ah! there is Henri. His step is tired and slow."

Henri came in, and in the old ceremonious way kissed his mother's hand and asked after her health. But the look that passed between them showed that although Madame de Talmont loved both her children intensely, her son was the very joy of her existence; while on his part, the love of his mother was the strongest passion that had yet found entrance into his young heart. His face was pale and anxious; indeed it wore almost an expression of terror.

"What is the matter?" his mother asked presently.

"Nothing particular,—nothing much," said Henri.

"Whatever it is, speak, my son,—and at once," said Madame de Talmont imperatively.

"There is a placard on the Mairie announcing that the drawing for the conscription is to take place next Thursday. It is as the curé told us: all are liable who will be eighteen in the course of the year."

Both his hearers grew pale, and the work fell from their hands. After a short pause his mother said, "It is plain you will have to attend. God grant you may draw a good number. But, at all events—" She remained silent for some moments, then she added, in a voice which struggled hard to be calm, "Bring me my desk, Clémence; we must be prepared for the worst."

Clémence obeyed mechanically, while Henri stood silent and listless, watching her movements.

"Henri," resumed Madame de Talmont, "I am going to write to our good friend Grandpierre. Should the worst happen, you must escape, and go to him through the forest. He will shelter you."

"But, mother, mother"—the lad's colour came and went, and a quiver ran through his frame—"the risk is terrible."

"To him? He will venture it, for the House of Talmont, for his King, and for his God."

"To us all. Do you know how they deal with the refractory, as they call those who try to evade the conscription, and with their families?"

Madame de Talmont raised her thin hand with a peremptory gesture, "Not another word, Henri. It concerns not thee or us to measure the danger; the duty is all with which we have to do. I can bear to think of thee pining on bread and water, with a bullet chained to thy foot, and thy head shaved like a convict's; I could not bear to know thee in the camp of the Corsican tyrant, fighting to fasten his iron yoke upon the necks of free men. How could I look upon thy father's face in heaven, if I had reared and nourished his son for this?"

"But oh, mother, it is you I think of—you and Clémence."

"Whatever cross God lays upon us he will give us strength to sustain. Go, my children, and pray to him. I must be alone while I write this letter, for it will need to be very cautiously but very distinctly worded. The posts are not safe."

1. He fought in the Vendéan War, and was taken prisoner and executed by the Republicans. He said to his judges, "J'ai fait mon devoir; faites votre métier."