G. P. R. James

Particular orders had been issued by the Count de Morseiul that no offence should be given to the religious feelings of the Catholics: and, in issuing his commands for the occupation of the little chapel at the bottom of the hill, he had directed that the building appropriated to the ceremonies of the church should not be entered, except in case of necessity; the porch and the sacristy being taken possession of, and the piece of consecrated ground around it, which was strongly walled, affording a sort of fort, in which the men constructed huts, or set up their tents.

They were accustomed, indeed, to abide in the forest, and found no difficulty or discomfort in taking their night's rest where they were. Three fine spreading yew trees, of unknown age and immense thickness, afforded a pleasant shelter to many; and wine, which had been found plentifully in the hamlet above, as well as in a little town at no great distance, flowed liberally amongst a body of men who had fought hard and marched long since the morning.

There was a great difference, however, to be remarked between them and the religious insurgents of more northern countries; for though both the sterner fanaticism which characterised Scotland and England not long before, and the wilder imaginations and fanciful enthusiasms of the far south were occasionally to be found in individuals, the great mass were entirely and decidedly French, possessing the character of light, and somewhat thoughtless gaiety, so peculiar to that indifferent and laughter-loving nation.

Thus, though they had prayed earnestly, after having fought with determination in the cause which to them was the cause of conscience, they were now quite ready to forget both prayer and strife, till some other cause should re-produce the enthusiasm which gave vigour to either.

They sat in groups, then, round fires of an old apple tree or two which they had pulled down, and drank the wine--procured, it must be acknowledged, by various different means; but though they sang not, as perhaps they might have done under other circumstances, nothing else distinguished them from any other party of gay French soldiers carousing after a laborious day.

Herval and Virlay, as the commanders of that peculiar body, had taken possession of the little sacristy, and made themselves as comfortable therein as circumstances admitted. They were both somewhat inclined to scoff at, and do dishonour to every thing connected with the ceremonies of the church of Rome; but the commands of the Count were still sufficiently potent with them to prevent them from indulging such feelings; and they remained conversing both over the events of the day, and also over past times, without any farther insult to the Roman Catholic faith than merely a scornful glance towards the vestments of the priests, the rich purple and lace of which excited their indignation even more than many articles of faith.

Several hours of the evening had thus worn away, and their conversation, far from being like that of their men without, was sad, dark, and solemn. The proximity of the convent had recalled to the mind of Herval the situation of her he had loved; and though they talked much of her fate, yet by some peculiar accident, which we shall not attempt to explain, that subject, dark and painful as it was, did not disturb his mental faculties as might have been expected. It produced, however, both on him and on Virlay, that dark and profound gloom, from which actions of a fierce and cruel nature more frequently have birth, than even from the keen and active excitement of strife and anger.

"Ay, and your child, too, Virlay," said Herval: "it is strange, is it not, that we have not yet found her? I should not wonder if she were in this very convent, up here upon the hill. The Count will not surely want you to leave it unsearched, when we march to-morrow."

"It matters little whether he do or not," replied Virlay. "Search it I will; and that as soon as it be grey day-light. My child I will have, if she be in France: and, oh, Herval, how often, when we are near a monastery or a convent, do I long to put a torch to the gate of it, and burn it all to the ground!"

"No, no," replied Herval, "that would not do; you would be burning the innocent with the guilty."

"Ay, true," answered Virlay, "and thus I might burn my own poor child."

"Ay, or my Claire," replied Herval,--"that is to say, if she had been living, poor thing! You know they shot her, Paul. They shot her to the heart. But as I was saying, you might burn your own poor child, or the child of many a man that loves his as well as you do yours."

"I wonder if she be in there," said Paul Virlay. "Why should I not take ten or twelve men up, and make them open the gates and see?"

"Better wait till day," replied Herval; "better wait till day, Virlay. They have thousands of places that you might miss in the night. Hark! some one knocked at the door--Who is it? Come in!"

"Only a poor old woman," replied a voice from without, half opening the door, "only a poor old woman soliciting charity and peace;" and a minute after, with timid and shaking steps, a woman, dressed in a grey gown like the portress of some convent, gradually drew herself within the doorway, and crossed herself twenty times in a minute, as she gazed upon the two Protestants sitting with the gloom of their late conversation still upon their faces.

"What do you want, old woman?" said Herval sharply. "Don't you know that you risk a great deal by coming out at this hour? My men are not lambs, nor wood pigeons, nor turtle doves."

"Oh, Heaven bless you, Sir, I know that," replied the old lady, "and in a great fright I am too: but after all I'm the least in a fright in the convent; and Sister Bridget--when she came to me with her teeth chattering in her head just after the men had come round and knocked at the door, and swore they would burn the place to the ground before morning--she talked so much about my courage, that I thought I had some, and agreed to come down; and then when she had got me out, she locked the wicket, and vowed I should not come in till I had been down to do the errand. So I came quietly on, and through the little gate, and got out of the way of the great gate, because I saw there were a number of fires there; and when I saw a light under the sacristy door, I said to myself, the officers will be in there, and they will be gentler and kinder----"

"Well, and what was your errand when you did come?" demanded Herval sharply.

"Why, Sir," replied the old woman, "we have a young lady amongst us--" Paul Virlay started suddenly on his feet--"and a sweet young lady she is too," continued the poor old nun, "as sweet a young lady and as pretty as ever I set my eyes on, and she told our good lady mother, the superior----"

"What is her name, woman?" cried Paul Virlay, advancing upon the poor sister who retreated before him, but who still, with woman's intuitive tact in such things, saw that she had got the advantage. "What is her name, woman? It is my child! Oh, Herval, it is my child!"

"So she said to my lady mother," continued the good nun, as soon as she could make her voice heard; "so she said to my lady mother, that she was sure that if her father was in the Count of Morseiul's camp, he would come up in a minute with a guard of men to protect the convent--especially if he knew that we had been kind and good to her."

"Where is she?--Take me to her," cried Paul Virlay. "Woman, take me to my child.--I will bring a guard,--I will protect you. Where is my poor Margette?"

"Are you her father, then, Sir?" demanded the old woman. "Is your name Monsieur Virlay?"

"Yes, yes, yes," cried he impetuously: "I am Paul Virlay, woman."

"Then, Sir," she replied, "if you will bring up a guard and undertake to protect the convent, you can have the young lady, only pray----"

"I will take a guard," cried he; "do not be afraid, woman! Nobody shall hurt you. I will take a guard," he continued speaking to Herval, as if in excuse for taking away part of the men from an important post, "I will take a guard for fear there should be men up there, and they should want to keep Margette. The Count said, too, that the only reason he did not occupy the convent was, that he did not like to disturb the nuns. Now, when they ask it themselves, I may well go. You can send for me in a moment if I be wanted."

"There is no fear of that," replied Herval; "go, in God's name, and see your child."

Paul Virlay hastened away, drawing the old woman by the arm after him, while Herval remained behind shaking his head, with a melancholy motion, and saying, "He will see his child again, and she will cling round his neck and kiss his cheek, and they will be happy: but I shall never see my poor Claire, as long as I linger on upon this dull world." He paused, and leaning his head upon his hand, plunged into melancholy thought.

There was a little bustle without, while Virlay chose out such men as he thought he could best depend upon, and then, that part of the camp did not exactly sink into tranquillity, but the general noise of the party was less. There was still loud talking amongst the men, and wine seemed to have done its work too, as in one or two instances, especially near the little sacristy, where the wilder and less tractable of Herval's band had been placed to be under his own eye, the psalms with which the evening had begun had deviated into gayer songs; and he sat and listened gravely, while one of the men near the door carolled to his comrades a light ditty.

SONG.

In the deep woods when I was young,

Sly the happy, happy sunshine stole.

Under the green leaves, where the birds sung,

And merry, merry music filled the whole;

For Mary sat there,
And all her care

Was to outsing the linnet,--Dear little soul!

Through the long grass, then would I steal,

In music and sunshine to have my part.

That no one was coming, seemed she to feel,

Till the warm kiss, made the sweet maid start.

Then would she smile,
Through her blushes the while,

And vow she did not love me,--Dear little heart!

The sunshine is stealing still through the trees.

Still in the green woods the gay birds sing,

But those leaves have fall'n by the wintry breeze,

And many birds have dropped, that were then on the wing,

All, all alone,
Beneath the cold stone,

Lies my sweet Mary!--Poor little thing!

Herval wept bitterly. It was one of the songs of his own youth, which he had himself sung in many a joyous hour: a song which was the master-key to visions of early happiness, and touching in its light emptiness upon all the most painful themes of thought. The song, the dear song of remembered happiness, sung at that moment of painful bereavement, was like a soldier's child springing to meet its father returning from the wars, and unconsciously plunging the arrow head deeper into the wound from which he suffered.

As he thus sat and wept, he was suddenly roused by the sound of a single musket shot at no great distance, and starting up, he listened, when loud cries from the other side of the chapel caught his ear, and he rushed out. All was dark; not a star was in the sky; but the air was free from vapour, and looking towards the spot from which the sounds proceeded, he could see a dark body moving rapidly along the side of the hill, beyond the enclosure round the chapel. The shot that had been fired was not returned, and hurrying up to the spot as fast as possible, he clearly distinguished a column of infantry marching along at a quick pace in that direction, and evidently seeking to force its way between the convent and the chapel. There was none but a single sentry in that direction--the man who had discharged his musket--and Herval exclaimed in agony, "Good God, how is this? They have been suffered to pass the morass and the stream!"

"I fired as soon as I saw them," replied the man; "but Virlay carried off all the men from down below there, and marched them up to the convent."

Herval struck his clenched hand against his brow, exclaiming, "Fool that I was to suffer him!" Then rushing back as fast as possible, he called all the rest of his troop to arms, and with the mere handful that assembled in a moment, rushed out by the gate through which the portress of the convent had entered, and attempted to cast himself in the way of the head of the enemy's column.

It was in vain, however, that he did so. A company of light infantry faced about, and met his first furious attack with a tremendous fire, while the rest of the force moved on. The sound, however, of the combat thus commenced, roused the rest of the camp, and the Count of Morseiul, himself on foot, and at the head of a considerable body of the most determined Huguenots, was advancing, ere five minutes were over, not to repel the attack of the enemy--for by what he saw, Albert of Morseiul instantly became aware, that, his camp being forced at the strongest point, it was in vain to hope that the King's army could be repulsed--but at least to cover the retreat of his troops with as little loss as possible.

All the confusion of a night combat now took place, the hurrying up by the dull and doubtful light; the cowardice that shows itself in many men when the eye of day is not upon them; the rashness and emotion of others, who indeed are not afraid, but only agitated; the mistakes of friends for foes, and foes for friends; the want of all knowledge of which party is successful in those points where the strife is going on at a distance.

As far as it was possible in such circumstances, Albert of Morseiul restored some degree of order and regularity to the defence. Relying almost altogether upon his infantry, he held the royalists in check, while he sent orders to some of the inferior commanders to evacuate the camp in as orderly a manner as possible, gathering the horse together upon the brow of the hill, so as to be ready when the occasion served to charge and support the infantry. His particular directions were despatched to Monsieur du Bar to maintain his post to the last, as the Count well knew that the forces of the Chevalier d'Evran were sufficient to attack the Huguenot camp on both sides at once.

Such, indeed, had been the plan of the Chevalier; but it was not followed correctly. He had placed himself at the head of the attack upon the side of the convent, as by far the most hazardous and difficult. The officer who commanded the other attack was a man of considerable skill, but he had with him the Intendant of the province; a personage as weak and presumptuous as he was cruel and bigoted: and insisting upon it, that the officer at the head of the troops had made a mistake in regard to the way, he entangled him in the morass, and delayed him for more than an hour.

Had the attack on that side succeeded, as well as that on the side of the chapel, the little force of the Huguenots must have been absolutely annihilated, and had the attack there even commenced at the same time that it began on the other side, the disasters of that night must have been tenfold greater than they proved. As it was, the Count de Morseiul had time to offer at least some resistance, and to organise his retreat. A horse was soon brought to him, and perceiving by the firing on the flank of the enemy's column, that Herval and his men were striving desperately to retrieve the error which had been committed, he called up a small body of horse, and making a gallant charge at their head, drove back some of the infantry companies that interposed between himself and the chapel, and opened a communication with Herval and the men. Giving orders to the officer in command of the horse to make another rapid charge, but not to entangle his men too far, the Count himself rode down to Herval, to ascertain what was proceeding in that quarter. He found the man covered with blood and gunpowder, raging like a wolf in the midst of a flock.

"Herval," he exclaimed, "a great mistake has been committed. A handful of men could have defended that bridge against an army."

"I know it, Count, I know it," replied Herval. "I have been a fool, Virlay has been a madman. I should never have trusted him by himself. It is time I should die."

"It is rather time, Herval," replied the Count, "that you should live and exert your good sense to remedy what is amiss. Do you not see that by spending your strength here you are doing no good, and losing your men every minute? Gather them together: quick, and follow me. We want support, there, upon the hill. The chapel is untenable now. Quick: lose not a moment. Good God!" he said, "they are not charging as I ordered, and in another moment we shall be cut off!"

It was indeed as he said. The young officer, to whom he had given the command, was shot through the head at the very moment that he was about to execute it. The charge was not made; the body which had been driven back by the Count were rallied by the Chevalier d'Evran; the infantry of the Huguenots, which had been guarding the heights, wavered before the superior force brought against them; and by the time that Herval's men were collected, a large body of foot interposed between the Count de Morseiul and the spot where he had left his troops. Nothing remained but to lead round Herval's little force by the hollow-way on the edge of the morass, and climbing the steeper part of the hill, by the road that led to the little hamlet and farm houses, to rejoin the principal body of the Protestants there, and to make one more effort to hold the hamlet against the advancing force of the royalists, till Monsieur du Bar had time to draw off his troops.

Ere the Count, however, could reach the ground where he had fixed his own head quarters, both the infantry and cavalry, which he had left, had been driven back, and, by a terrible oversight, instead of retiring upon the hamlet, had taken the way to the right, along which the other bodies of troops had been ordered to retreat. The royalists thus, at the time that the Count arrived, were pouring in amongst the cottages and farm houses, and when he reached the little knoll immediately behind the house, where he had left ClÉmence de Marly, he was instantly assailed by a tremendous fire from behind the walls of the court yard, and the lower windows of the house itself. He had no troops with him but Herval's band, and a small body of foot which arrived at that moment to his assistance from the Marquis du Bar, and he paused for an instant in agony of heart, knowing and feeling that it was utterly hopeless to attempt to retake the farmhouse, and enable ClÉmence to effect her escape. The grief and pain of a whole life seemed summed up in that one moment.

"I will not," he cried, in the rashness of despair, "I will not leave her without an effort."

Herval was by his side. "Sir," he said, "I must not live over this night. Let us advance at all risks."

The Count gave the order, and the men advanced gallantly, though the enemy's fire was terrible. They were actually scaling the wall of the court-yard, when suddenly a fire was opened upon them from the houses and walls on either side. Herval fell over amidst the enemy, the Count's horse dropped at once under him, and he felt himself drawn forcibly out from beneath the dying animal, and carried along by the men in full retreat from that scene of slaughter.

"Here is a horse, Count,--here is a horse," cried a voice near him. "Mount, quick, and oh take care of my poor girl. She is on with the troops before. I have lost you the battle, and know what must come of it."

The Count turned and saw Paul Virlay by his side; but before he could reply the man left the bridle in his hand, and rushed into the midst of the enemy.

Springing on the charger's back the Count gazed round him. Herval's band was all in confusion; but beginning to rally upon the body of infantry sent by Du Bar. The hamlet was in full possession of the enemy: the only means of communication between Du Bar and the troops that were retreating was along the hill side. Albert of Morseiul saw that if he did not maintain that line, his gallant friend would be cut off, and, for the moment, casting from his mind all the other bitter anxieties that preyed upon it, he hastened to occupy a little rising ground, terribly exposed, indeed, to the enemy's fire, but which would protect the flank of his friend's little corps, while they joined the rest who were in retreat. That he was just in time was proved to Albert of Morseiul, by the sound of a load cannonade, which commenced from the very direction of Du Bar's quarters; and, sending that officer orders to retreat directly, he remained, for twenty minutes, repelling every charge of the enemy; and, by the example of his own desperate courage and perfect self-command, seeming to inspire his men with resolution unconquerable. In the mean time the Marquis du Bar retreated before the other body of royalists which had now come up, and having seen his men in comparative safety, rode back, with a small body of horse, to aid the Count in covering the retreat. The royalists now, however, had gained their object; the camp of the Huguenots was in their hands; the slaughter on both sides had been dreadful, considering the short space of time which the strife had lasted; the country beyond was difficult and defensible, and the order for stopping further pursuit was given as soon as no more resistance was made in the Huguenot camp.