Now the Duchesse gave orders that even suspected treachery was to be punished by hanging. The Mayor ordered dozens of executions every week. One night an attempt to assassinate him took place. The Duchesse commanded that he move his family and himself into the Hôtel de Rohan.
At night, the Rochellais, in their empty and stricken city, heard the loud prayers for them uttered by Père Joseph’s Calvarian nuns directly below the walls. None was touched. If anything, they were stiffened. The sound of those incantations horrified them, with a mysterious horror. The Cardinal denounced it as “mummery,” to the Capuchin’s indignation. “Do you think the prayers of cloistered women will move emancipated Frenchmen when the cries of their own dying and tormented wives and children will not do so?” he asked.
He was suffering as he never suffered before, and he was not suffering for himself. Behind these walls, beloved Frenchmen were dying, and he, so jealous of every drop of French blood, cursed the foul fate which had brought him here to inflict so much agony on his countrymen. Was this a way to unite Frenchmen, Protestant and Catholic alike? Would not the hatred inherent in such bloody seed live to grow a dread harvest through countless centuries?
“Who knows but that, hundreds of years hence, when all Frenchmen are faced with the supreme hour, this harvest may not then bear its ghastly fruit, and destroy France?” he asked himself. “For then Frenchmen shall not trust Frenchmen, and all will be lost.”
Only six thousand men behind those walls now, but they were writing an epic. Strong souls such as this aroused his pride. They were needed to set the vines and the trees of life-giving orchards.
He wrote to the Duchesse: “I have not implored you in the past to order surrender, for you and I have honor. But I am tortured by the thought of the sufferings of your people. Before your gallantry I kneel, and ask that you order the gates to be opened, in the name of humanity. I cannot endure this. I am racked with agony, my bed sleepless.”
The messenger, with his white flag, brought back an unguent in a little gold box, and a letter from the Duchesse. “I recommend that your Eminence rub a portion of this upon your brow before retiring, in order that you may sleep,” she had written, wryly.
No one had displayed more fortitude in all this horror than Cecile Grandjean. Though she was wasted to a transparent skeleton of herself, she said no word of complaint or fear. She was confined to her bed, for she could no longer walk. Moreover, she was enceinte. No one but the Duchesse knew this. The old grande dame brought morsels from Feuquières’ baskets for her, urging the girl to eat for the sake of the child. But Cecile gently refused. “My child and I die together, if need be,” she said, with a stern look. Arsène was not to be told, she said. This, above all, might shake his fortitude.
Each day Arsène, the German, the Spaniard and the Italian took their watches on the rampart, though so fainting that they were hardly conscious. There were white patches at Arsène’s temples. He looked a man of forty or more, rather than his true age of barely past thirty.—Then, one day, a ball, coming from no one knew where, struck the German in the heart and he died as bravely as he had lived.
This did not awaken any wild fury in Arsène, as the Duchesse believed it would do. He was very quiet. “Our Arsène,” she said to the Marquis, “has had too much food for thought forced into him, and he is suffering from indigestion.”
“I believe he is digesting only too well,” said the Marquis, in the whisper which was the best he could summon these days.
The Marquis had displayed a fortitude and simple heroism which amazed every one. He worked with the other townsmen in burying the dead, in standing watch. Now he was in truth an old man, uncomplaining. His hair was white and thin. He no longer wore his many curled wigs, though, when he appeared at the table, his garments were as rich as ever, though shabby. The malice had left his soul; it had almost left his wizened face. Only the thin web-like lines about his sunken mouth and eyes betrayed his past frivolity. The Marquis, too, was thinking.
No one knew that there was joy in his heart. He had lived for so many years in self-disgust, triviality, self-betrayal, and contemptuous ribaldry. Now, he was his father, his grandfather. Sometimes he dreamt of them, standing by his bed, their hands on their swords, their heads proud and high, bending their proud smiles upon him. Once he heard his father say: “Soon, my son, you shall be with me in eternal glory. You have redeemed yourself.”
He had come because he could not bear to be parted from Arsène. He remained, because he could not bear to be parted from the souls of his ancestors.
His hands, once so fine and delicate and perfumed, were calloused and torn with toil, from digging the graves of the dead. His body was bent. He shuffled feebly through the streets and the houses, helping drag the carts loaded with corpses, until even the suffering could forget their own suffering and take compassion upon him. But one look at his quiet and uplifted face, his shining eyes, and they could say nothing.
He could still make epigrams. Around that dolorous table, on which there were no longer any candles, he and the Duchesse, in their whispering voices, matched wits, for the sad amusement of the others. Only Arsène did not smile. His face was perpetually darkened and closed, but full of intensity. He no longer had strength for words of love, for his father or his mistress. He could only touch the Marquis feebly on the shoulder or the hand, and kiss his cheek. He could only kneel beside Cecile’s bed and lay his head on her shrunken breast.
The uncomplaining sufferings of the girl, her steadfast smiles, tore him apart. But he dared not urge her to flee. He loved her too much to have been able to endure her scornful bright anger. He dared not let her know how his heart was failing, not for himself, but for her. Sometimes, he prayed that when he awoke in the morning, she would be dead, and free.
He thought he moved in hopelessness. He did not know that strange things had permanently taken root in his soul, and would never die. His calm, which he believed came from fatality, came, instead, from his new and unshakable fortitude.
The Spaniard and the Italian died the same night in their beds. It was thought at first that they had died of starvation, but the dread signs of pestilence were soon discerned on their bodies.
Hardly was the horror felt, the bodies buried hastily, when the Marquis sickened.
The old magnate, from the onset of the first chill and shiver, knew that he was dying. A supreme thrill of joy convulsed him. He called for his son, and asked to see him alone. He lay on his silken bed, hardly more than an outline of bones, and the linen was no whiter than his hair.
Now a new strength was given to him. He could speak clearly and firmly. He held Arsène with his burning eyes.
“I have talked with Madame la Duchesse, my dearest one, my scapegrace, my vagabond,” he said, with a smile that did not lessen his seriousness. “She will speak with you when I am gone. I urge you, I pray you, not to refuse her. What she will ask will not be for yourself alone, but for Cecile, for your children, for me—and our fathers.”
He appeared so happy and so serene, that Arsène could feel no grief. He sat beside the bed and held his father’s dwindled hand. Sometimes he lost consciousness, for he was weak. But when he looked up, the Marquis’ eyes were still fixed upon him, smiling and unafraid, and full of love.
“Not only you, my son, but I, have been born again,” he whispered.
There was no candle in that room, but the moonlight, brilliant and full, streamed through the open windows so that the first airs of summer could enter. Now it seemed to Arsène that the chamber was full of ghosts who did not know him, but only his father. So engrossed was he in his sensing of these ghosts, that he was unaware of the silent coming and going of the Duchesse. Cecile begged from her bed to be allowed to say farewell to the old man, but this was not allowed.
The moon sank to rest, and when it was the darkest of all, and the ghosts most imminent, the Marquis died, without a last sigh or murmur. Arsène knew he had gone only when the hand he held grew cold in his
.
When they had arranged him in his bed, the dawn was clear and gray in the sky. He lay there, rigid, seeming to have grown taller, nobility obliterating forever the last lines of malice and shallowness of heart. Now there was much in his lineaments that reminded Arsène of the dead Louis. There was the same loftiness and coldness and dignity. For some reason, Arsène began to weep.
The Marquis was hardly in his grave, when a letter came from the Cardinal to Arsène. It began on a note of affection and personal regard, and slight raillery. Then it became brief and somber.
“A messenger has just arrived at our camp bringing me a missive from Madame de Tremblant, your belle mere. It is a sad message, one which I know will cause you much sorrow. Madame de Richepin died a month ago in childbed, leaving to you a handsome young son, who has been given your name, and your father’s.”
It was some hours before Arsène could absorb this message, and its portent. Then he was overcome. He did not speak of it to Cecile, but to the Duchesse, and his words were wild.
“It is too late to ask forgiveness of my poor Clarisse,” he said, distraught.
“You could have done nothing else but what you did,” said the Duchesse with compassion. But she eyed him thoughtfully, with a brightening eye.
She was relieved that there was no sign of love in Arsène’s grief, but only regret and remorse. She was even more relieved when he went to Cecile for consolation.
Several weeks later, she sent for him on the ramparts, and believing that Cecile was at last about to die, he rushed through the streets with the last strength he could summon. But he found the Duchesse in company with the parson of the nearby chapel, one Monsieur de Duvois, the Mayor, and several other of his friends. The Duchesse greeted him with a roguish smile. She was arrayed in the last of her splendor. There was the last of her good wine waiting in crystal goblets. She kissed him upon both cheeks, rising on her toes to do so. Every haggard face was radiant with smiles.
His relief was so great that he staggered, and would have fallen but for ready arms.
“I have plans for you, my bravo,” said the Duchesse. “But they first demand a wedding ceremony. Go, then, to your rooms, and prepare yourself. Cecile is being dressed by my women for this most auspicious occasion.”
He stared at them dumbly. He could hardly comprehend.
“Time is imperative,” said the Duchesse, firmly. “Hasten, and then there shall be news for you.”
Her face and manner were so full of authority and resolution, that he obeyed, and climbed feebly to his rooms. He had never thought of Cecile as anything but his wife. It seemed strange and improbable that others had not thought so. It angered him, in his hunger-ridden confusion. He heard the faint sounds of preparation behind the doors which led to Cecile’s apartments, and her sweet weak voice. A lackey entered to assist him.
When he arrived downstairs again, they had brought Cecile to him, supported by her women. She was arrayed in blue and ermine, her hair wound high upon her head. Rouge had been skillfully applied to her white face, and touched to her lips. A semblance of health radiated from her. She gazed at Arsène softly.
Arsène took her hot thin hand, and looked deeply down into her eyes. His face was so moved that others felt tears rising in their throats. He thought: I have brought so much pain and suffering to this poor child, as I brought them to Clarisse. I have brought her to starve and to die, I have given her my heart, but it is nothing to what I have inflicted upon her.
The ceremony was brief but dignified. Arsène supported Cecile in his arms. They drank wine, and the young couple was congratulated. Then Arsène carried Cecile upstairs to his apartments and laid her in his bed.
Now he could feel joy. There was no escape for either of them from this doomed city. But still, there was joy.
He lay beside her, and his tears came. She held him in her arms and murmured to him softly. At last he was still, and he slept for exhaustion. But she gazed into space with a far brilliance in her eyes, as of hope and resolution.
CHAPTER LVIII
That night the Duchesse sent for him in her own apart ments.
He found her as always, alone and tranquil, composed and contained. She asked him to sit near her. She poured a glass of wine for him. Over its rim, she studied him thoughtfully and shrewdly. He saw that she held a paper in her hand.
Then she said in a very quiet voice: “La Rochelle will surrender in two days.”
He started to his feet so violently that he overturned the chair. He staggered, and caught hold of the edge of a table. “No,” he said. “No!” Now his face took on a terrible and enraged expression.
But the Duchesse was not disturbed. She still studied him. She nodded her head. “It is so. We cannot go on any longer. There are only five thousand of us left. I have decided. I have the Cardinal’s promise that these shall be spared and he has never broken his word to me.”
She seemed mysteriously calm, and not despondent. Arsène looked down at her with a convulsed face.
“Do not be so desperate, my poor child,” she continued, in a softer tone. “We shall surrender. But, we are not defeated. We have given an epic to the world, and it shall not forget.”
She paused and said: “However, there is no place for you in France, in Europe, any longer. Your father spoke to me long ago, and then before he died. We made our decision. There are other worlds which need you, your blood, your fortitude, your courage, your faith. We shall send you to those worlds, not for your sake, but for all time to come.”
She indicated the chair again with her imperious gesture, and he was forced to seat himself. But he was trembling uncontrollably. He bit his lip to stop its shaking, and the blood came. The Duchesse did not appear aware of his emotions. She looked before her and spoke tranquilly:
“Europe may blaze up once or twice more in splendor. But its day is done. The pestilence runs too deeply in its murky veins. It is a place no longer for the young and strong of heart. It is old; it is a land of old men, who remember only the past, and believe there is no future. Nothing can destroy the plague in its body, the disaster in its soul, the blight on its face. The evil ones have done their work too well.”
Now she turned to him, and her steadfast eyes were full of stern light.
“But there is another world, a new world, still a wilderness, but a plain where great harvests can grow, where new governments, new philosophies can flourish, where young men can be born and mighty things can be evoked. Not, perhaps, in your lifetime, or the lifetime of your sons, but your blood shall run into the future and beget other men and women who shall not forget, who shall prevail against the enemy of all men.”
She leaned towards him with stern enthusiasm. “Before evil deeds are done, there are first the evil, perverse and twisted thoughts. In a house of pestilence, one acquires the pestilence, no matter how healthy the body. This is true, also, of the mind. The pestilence lives in Europe! It cannot be washed or burned away. It would rise in its full strength as a plague whenever there is the opportunity. One must flee to a clean place, to escape it, one where the pestilence has not become the fungus of infection. And in that world of which I have spoken, the fungus is not yet deeply rooted, though its spores have been scattered in the north, and in the southern continent.”
She stood up suddenly, her wide and brocaded gown rustling about her, and he was forced to rise with her. The words came from her lips, but he felt them rushing from his own heart, and hers were only an echo.
“It is a wilderness still, that world, beyond a few sea-coast towns and raw small cities. But it is not a barren wilderness. It is full of the promise of life. To that world, that wilderness, you are to go, Arsène, with your wife, your blood, your hopes and your faith.”
He passed his hands over his face. He felt giddy, like a man who has been confined in a narrow prison and finds himself suddenly freed. But still, he was incredulous at the words he was hearing, and astounded.
“What is Madame saying?” he mutter
ed, but more to himself than to her.
He dropped his hands. “I must stay here to the end, no matter what comes,” he said.
“To the end,” she repeated, thoughtfully. Then she turned to him, ablaze with such scorn that he was startled.
“It is the end!” she cried. “And you will die and fester here, betraying all that we have hoped!”
She was like a seeress, bright with passion and prophesy.
“You dare not refuse!” she exclaimed. “You dare not let us surrender in hopelessness and darkness. With you go all that we have fought for, suffered for, and died for! Refuse them, and you are not one of us any longer.”
He could say nothing. He was violently bewildered. But she held his attention, and now he felt the beating of his liberated heart.
She gazed at him fixedly. “Do you know that you are about to have another child, my dear Arsène? Do you not know that Cecile is to give you this child?”
Arsène was silent.
But the Duchesse continued inexorably: “Remain, and your children will inherit the pestilence and the ruin and the hopelessness of Europe. Leave, and a new world is their inheritance. Dare you refuse?”
It was a long time before Arsène could speak. His face was pale and moist.
“I, too, have thought of it, Madame la Duchesse. Long ago, I came to the decision to leave this place, when my work is done. But it is not done. To go now would be ignominious flight, and dishonor. It would be betrayal, abandonment. The work of a coward and a traitor. I know of this new world: America. I know that thousands of us must go there, to escape the things of Europe. But I have work here still to be done. If I die in the doing of it, then it is regrettable. I cannot go.”
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