Читать книгу The Three Brides, Love in a Cottage, and Other Tales - Francis A. Durivage - Страница 13

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With the army of Marshal Saxe, encamped near Fontenoy ready to give battle to the allies, there were not a few ladies, who, impelled by a chivalric feeling, or personally interested in the fate of some of the combatants, had followed the troops to witness the triumph of the French arms. Their presence was at once the incitement and reward of valor, for what soldier would not fight with tenfold gallantry when he knew that his exploits were witnessed by the eyes of her he loved as wife, mistress, or mother, and whose safety or honor, perhaps, depended on his prowess?

Among those most distinguished for their beauty was the youthful Heloise, the lovely daughter of the Baron de Clairville, a French general officer. The beaux yeux of the demoiselle had enslaved more than one young officer, but of the host of suitors none could boast with reason of encouragement, except Henri de Grandville, and Raoul, Count de St. Prix, both commanding companies in the French Guards. Both were handsome and accomplished young men, and both had yet their spurs to win upon the field of battle. They had been fast friends until the pursuit of the same lady had created a sort of estrangement between them. Little was known of Henri de Grandville previous to his reception of his commission in the guards. He had been brought up by his mother in an old provincial chateau, and though his manners and education were those of a gentleman, still he seemed but little acquainted with the world, and above all ignorant of the lighter accomplishments of the courtier. Perhaps this very simplicity of manner and frankness of character, contrasting so strangely with the fashionable affectations of the court, endeared him to his comrades, and strongly prepossessed Heloise de Clairville in his favor. His rival was of a different stamp. Raoul de St. Prix was a dashing, brilliant officer, brave as steel, but fond of dress, reckless, dissipated, and extravagant. Yet his faults were those of his age, and belonged to the circumstances by which he was surrounded. The Baron de Clairville, while he left his daughter free to make her election, yet, as a plain, blunt soldier, rather than a courtier, secretly inclined to favor the pretensions of Henri. Still, his treatment of the two young guardsmen was the same, for they gave equal promise of military gallantry.

It was on the eve of the battle of Fontenoy that Henri sought an interview with Heloise, who occupied a gay pavilion near her father's tent. He found her alone and weeping.

"Mademoiselle," said he, "you are unhappy. Will you permit a friend to inquire the cause of your sorrow?"

"Can you ask me, Monsieur de Grandville! Of the thousands of brave men who lie down to-night in peaceful slumber, how many sleep their last sleep on earth! How many eyes, that will witness to-morrow's sun arise, will be closed forever before it goes down at evening! O, what a dreadful business is this trade of war! My poor father, he never cares for himself, he never asks his men to go where he is unwilling to lead. I fear for his safety in the deadly conflict of to-morrow."

"If the devotion of one faithful follower can save him, lady," answered Henri, "be assured of his safety. I would pour out the blood in my veins as freely as water to shield the father of Heloise de Clairville."

"But you—you—Henri—Monsieur de Grandville—you think nothing of your own life."

"If I fall," answered the young soldier, "my poor mother will weep bitterly for her only son, though he perish on the field of honor. But who else will shed a tear for the poor guardsman?"

"Henri!" exclaimed the young girl, reproachfully, and the soft eyes she raised to his were filled with tears.

"Is it possible?" cried the young soldier. "Can my fate awaken even a momentary interest in the heart of the loveliest, the gentlest of her sex? Ah, why do you render life so dear to me at the moment I must peril it?"

"Believe me," answered Heloise, drying her tears, "that I would not hold you back, when honor beckons you. It is to such hands as yours that the honor of the golden lilies is committed. I am the daughter of a soldier, and though these tears confess my sex, I honor bravery when it is displayed in a good cause. I honor the soldier as much as I detest the duellist."

"Then listen to one whose sword was never stained with his brother's blood. I had thought to go to the field with my secret concealed in my own breast, but something impels me to speak out. I love you, Heloise—I have dared to love—to adore you."

The fair girl blushed till her very temples were crimsoned over with eloquent blood. The young soldier threw himself at her feet, and taking the fair hand she abandoned to him, covered it with kisses; nor did he rise till he had received confirmation of his new-born hopes, and knew that, for good or ill, the heart of Heloise was irrevocably his. Finally, he was compelled to tear himself away, but he carried to his tent a feeling of delicious joy which steeled his mind against all thought of the chances of the morrow.

The moments passed away in delirious revery, but at length he was interrupted by St. Prix.

The count was in the worst of humors—his brow was dark with passion, and he threw himself into a seat, and flung his plumed hat on the table with an energy that betrayed the violence of his emotions.

"What's the matter, Raoul?" asked Henri. "Has Saxe changed his plans? Do we fall back instead of advancing?"

"No, thank God! there will be plenty of throat-cutting to-morrow, and the French Guards have the post of honor."

"Thank Heaven!" exclaimed Henri, joyfully.

"You seem in excellent spirits to-night, Captain Henri de Grandville."

"I wish I could say as much of you, Captain Raoul de St. Prix."

"Tell me the cause of your felicity."

"Enlighten me respecting your ill humor."

"Willingly, on condition that you will explain your satisfaction."

"Agreed."

"Well, then—you know the marked preference—marked preference, I say—always shown me by Mademoiselle Heloise de Clairville."

"I will not dispute with you—go on."

"You must have been blinded by absurd hopes not to have noticed it; every officer in the army looked to me as the futur of the lady. Well, sir, encouraged and led on by this siren, I made my proposals to her to-night. Ventre St. Gris! I had engaged to settle with my creditors out of her marriage portion."

"Go on—go on—this is excellent, St. Prix."

"Well, sir, she rejected me—me, the Count de St. Prix. A prior engagement, forsooth! I wish to Heaven I knew the fellow! Before sunrise he should have more button holes in his doublet than ever his tailor made."

"Captain St. Prix," replied Henri, "you have not far to look. In me behold the fortunate suitor. Come, come; confess that your pride, and not your heart, was engaged in the affair. The game was fairly played; the stakes are mine."

"This trifling will not pass muster with me, sir," said the count, sternly. "Know—if you knew it not before—that Raoul de St. Prix never fixed his eye on a prize that he did not obtain, or missing it, failed to punish his successful rival. You are a soldier, and you understand me, sir," he added, touching his sword knot with his gloved hand.

"This is midsummer madness, Raoul," answered Henri, with good temper. "Had I been unsuccessful, painful, fatal as the disappointment would have been, I should have resigned the lady to you without a struggle."

"That shows the difference between a gentleman and a parvenu," retorted St. Prix.

"A parvenu!" cried De Grandville, starting to his feet.

"Yes. Who knows you? Whence came you? You are an intruder in our ranks."

"I bear the king's commission."

"Yes, and have not courage enough to sustain it. I have defied you to your teeth, and you refuse to fight."

"My principles are opposed to duelling. In the words of the lady whose preference honors me, 'I honor the soldier as much as I detest the duellist.' Besides, has not the marshal strictly forbidden duels in the camp? Conscience, reason, authority, every consideration forbids my acceptance of the challenge."

"Then," said St. Prix, "you shall submit to an indignity that disgraces a French gentleman forever." And raising his sheathed sword, he struck De Grandville with the flat of the scabbard.

Henri's sword instantly flashed in the lamplight, and St. Prix drawing his rapier, they were instantly engaged in deadly combat. Both were expert swordsmen, and while one fought with the ferocity of hatred and disappointment, the arm of the other was nerved by a sense of wrong. The metallic ring of their blades was unintermitted, for neither paused to take breath, but, with teeth set and eyes glaring, thrust, parried, advanced, and fell back in the fierce ardor of the combat. At last, De Grandville, seeing an opportunity, sent his adversary's blade whirling through the air, and drawing back his weapon, prepared to thrust it through his breast.

"Strike!" said St. Prix; "you have vanquished me in love and in arms, and there is nothing left me but to die."

"Die, then, but on the field of battle, brave Raoul," said de Grandville, "and since I have deprived you of your sword, take mine; I shall be honored by the exchange."

"Hold!" said a stern voice; and turning, Henri beheld with confusion the countenance of Marshal Saxe, who, attended by a file of musketeers, had entered the tent at the close of the duel. "You will give up your sword to this officer, Captain de Grandville," added he, pointing to a commissioned officer by whom he was accompanied. "Count de St. Prix, you will pick up your weapon, also, and surrender it. Officers who forget themselves so far as to seek each other's lives upon the eve of battle, with the enemy before them, are unworthy of command. This is matter for the provost marshal."

And the old soldier seated himself at the table, and eyed the offenders angrily and sternly.

"May it please your excellency," said St. Prix, "I alone deserve to suffer. I insulted the gentleman, and forced him to fight."

"Forced him to fight?" said the marshal. "Hadn't he read the orders of the day?"

"I do not claim your clemency, marshal," said Henri. "I committed this fault with my eyes open. But a man cannot always command his passions."

"That's true, my lad. But what were you fighting about?"

"A woman, your excellency," said St. Prix.

"A woman! fools! a woman that's not to be had without fighting for isn't worth having. Well, well—boys will be boys. I pardon you on two conditions. In the first place, you must shake hands." Henri and Raoul advanced and joined their hands. "And in the next place, that you give a good account of yourselves to-morrow. Sacre nom de Dieu! I can ill spare two lads of spirit from the guards. And now," said the marshal, rising, after restoring their swords to the officers, "good night, gentlemen; and plenty of hard knocks to-morrow."

The next day witnessed one of those terrible encounters, whose sanguinary prints make a more indelible impression on the page of history than the records of the more generous deeds of peaceful life. The greatest gallantry was displayed on both sides, and on the part of the French no officers were more distinguished for their valor than the two guardsmen whose encounter on the previous evening we have just related. Raoul de St. Prix, in the early part of the engagement, fell sword in hand at the head of his company, thus meeting with honor a fate he had earnestly desired. Henri de Grandville, in the course of the day, found himself in command of the regiment, every officer of higher rank having fallen. When the carnage had ceased, he laid a stand of captured colors at the feet of the commander-in-chief, and was complimented by Marshal Saxe at the head of the army, receiving assurance that his gallantry should be at once reported to the king.

Flushed with triumph, the young guardsman flew to the presence of his mother, to receive her embrace and recount in modest terms the story of his deeds. She rejoiced in his safety, and sympathized with his joy. But all at once, as he made her the confident of other hopes, and enlarged on the prospect of his speedy union with Heloise de Clairville, her countenance changed, and her eyes became suffused with tears.

"Dear Henri," said she, "I knew nothing of this. Why did you not sooner apprise me of this fatal passion?"

"Fatal passion, dear mother! Why do you thus characterize the love I bear to the purest, the most beautiful of her sex?"

"She is, indeed, all that you paint her, Henri; but you must learn the hard task of renouncing your hopes. You can never marry her."

"And why so? Do you refuse your consent?"

"Alas! no. But the Baron de Clairville—"

"He regards me with a favorable eye. I have reason to think he knows of my attachment to his daughter, and approves of it. Even now, his congratulations had a marked meaning, which could hardly be ambiguous."

"But a fatal, an insurmountable barrier lies between you and the object of your hopes."

"Do not keep me in suspense," cried the young soldier, "Explain this mystery, I implore you."

"Have you fortitude to listen to a dreadful secret, the possession of which has well nigh destroyed the life of your mother?"

"God will give me strength to bear any stroke," replied Henri. "Thanks to your instruction and example, I have schooled myself to suffer, unrepining, whatever Providence, in its infinite wisdom, sees fitting to inflict. If I have a soul for the dangers of the field, I have also, I think, the courage to confront those trials that pierce the heart with keener agonies than any the steel of a foeman can inflict. Fear not to task me beyond my strength."

"I will be as brief as possible," said the lady. "Your father, Henri, was of noble birth and possessed of fortune. My own share of the world's goods was small, and yet it was on this pittance alone that we were sustained, till the exertions of a generous friend procured you, under the name of De Grandville, (my maiden name,) a commission in the guards."

"Then De Grandville was not the name of my father."

"No—he belonged to the noble house of Montmorenci. The early years of our married life were passed in happiness that I always feared was too great to be enduring. It was brought to a bitter and miserable end. Deadly enemies—for the best and noblest have their foes—conspired against your father, and he was accused—falsely accused, mark me—of treason to his king and country. I will not tell you by what forgery and perjury he was made to appear guilty—but he was convicted—and sentenced—"

"Sentenced!"

"Ay, sentenced, and suffered. He died by the hands of Monsieur de Paris!"

"Monsieur de Paris!"

"The executioner!"

Henri uttered a piercing cry, and covered his face with his hands. He remained a long time in this attitude, his frame convulsed by the agonies of grief, while his mother watched, with streaming eyes, the effect of her communication. At length he removed his hands, and raised his head. His countenance was deadly pale—the only indication of the train of emotions which had just convulsed him—but his look was firm and high.

"Mother," said he, pressing her hand, "I thank you. It was better to learn this dreadful secret from your lips than from the words of another. Henceforth we will live for each other—we shall have a common sorrow and a common fate. I pray you to excuse me for a few moments. I will soon rejoin you, but I have first a duty to perform."

The young guardsman passed from his mother's presence to that of the Baron de Clairville.

"Welcome, welcome! my brave boy," said the old soldier. "You have fairly won your spurs."

"Sir, you flatter me," replied Henri, gravely.

"Not at all. Saxe himself says that more distinguished gallantry never fell beneath his notice."

"You think then, baron, I can claim a post of honor and danger in the next engagement?"

"You can lead the Forlorn Hope if you like."

"Enough, baron. I came to ask your forgiveness."

"My forgiveness!"

"Yes, sir, for having wronged you unconsciously so lately as last evening."

"Wronged me, and how, strange boy? you talk in riddles."

"Last evening, sir, on the eve of battle, which might well, considering what followed, have been my last of life, I sought your daughter. Her manner, some unguarded words she dropped, emboldened me to declare a secret which I had hitherto kept fast locked in my breast. I threw myself at her feet, and told her that I loved her."

"And she—"

"Confessed that she loved me in return."

"Henri! my boy—my son—my hero! this news makes me young again! it gladdens my old heart like the shout of victory upon a stricken field. Is this your offence? I freely pardon it."

"You know not all, baron. You knew that I was a poor and obscure soldier of fortune."

"The man who has distinguished himself as you have done this day, might claim the hand of an emperor's daughter."

"Baron, between me and Heloise there lies a black shadow—a memory—a horror, which forbids our meeting. The very name I bear does not belong to me."

"And how may you be named, young man, if not De Grandville?"

"Henri de Montmorenci," replied the young soldier.

"De Montmorenci!" cried the baron. "That is a noble and historic name. The house of Montmorenci has been well represented in the field."

"And on the scaffold!" added Henri, with deep emotion.

"The scaffold!" exclaimed the baron. "Yes, yes; I remember now a dreadful tragedy. But he suffered unjustly."

"No matter," answered Henri. "The ignominious punishment remains a stain upon our escutcheon. Men will point to me as the son of a condemned and executed traitor. Could I forget for a moment the tragedy which has rendered my poor mother an animated image of death, the finger of the world would recall my wandering thoughts to the horrors of the fact. The scaffold, with all its bloody paraphernalia, would rise up before me."

"Henri, you are too sensitive," said the baron. "The best and bravest of France (alas for our history!) have closed their lives upon the scaffold. I believe your father innocent. If it were otherwise, you have redeemed the honor of your race. You deserve my daughter's hand—take her and be happy."

"Make her the companion of my agony! Never."

"Come with me," said the baron; "her smiles shall dispel these gloomy fantasies."