Vivo cheio de saudade
Vagando pelas ruas da cidade
Sorrindo sem razão para sorrir
Aguardando a decisão
De um destino que há de vir
Cheio de felicidade!
Para quem soube amar
Com carinho e lealdade
Eis a pura verdade
E ninguém pode contestar
Para que haver contestação?
Pois está mulher mágou
Meu coração
Sonhando com a felicidade
Eu ando tristonho
E vivo cheio de saudade.
29
Le Prince d'Orléans
Lettre du 26 avril 1846
« Après la sainte communion, Notre-Seigneur m’a dit :
—Laissez-vous aller à l’impression de la grâce.
J’ai obéi, et ce divin Sauveur a commencé son opération. Mais que dirai-je maintenant ? O bonté infinie de mon Dieu, aidez-moi à parler, afin que vous soyez de plus en plus connue et bénie sur la terre !
—Regardez, me dit tout à coup Notre-Seigneur, voilà celui pour lequel vous avez prié ; je vous l’amène, afin qu’il vous remercie de ce que vous avez fait. Voyez à son égard l’excès de ma miséricorde, continua-t-il ; si je l’avais laissé sur la terre, il aurait eu l’ambition de ceindre son front d’une couronne temporelle, et maintenant je lui donne au ciel une couronne de gloire.
Je voyais, par une vue intellectuelle, cette âme à côté de Jésus. Comme elle se tournait vers moi :
—Ah ! — lui ai-je dit — c’est Notre-Seigneur qu’il faut remercier, car pour moi je ne suis rien; ce sont ses mérites que j’ai offerts à Dieu.
Cet âme me dit alors:
— C’est à la sainte Vierge que je dois mon salut; quand j’ai été traduite devant le tribunal de Dieu, j’ai été couverte des mérites infinis de Jésus-Christ, et c’est par la protection de saint Joseph que je suis sortie du purgatoire.
—O âme trop heureuse, — lui ai-je dit —, priez pour moi; et je répétais, dans un transport de reconnaissance envers la miséricorde infinie de Dieu: Heureuse âme, priez pour moi; prosternons-nous ensemble aux pieds de Notre-Seigneur Jésus-Christ; aidez-moi à lui rendre mes devoirs.
Notre-Seigneur m’a dit :
—Maintenant, celui-ci priera pour vous.
Et je répétais :
—Priez pour moi ! Mais, repris-je, comment vous invoquerai-je désormais ?
—Je m’appelle Ferdinand, nommez-moi Ferdinand ; je vous assure que je m’appelais Ferdinand.
Il me semblait qu’il répétait ainsi son nom plusieurs fois comme preuve de la vérité que je voyais, car j’ignorais qu’il eût ce nom. Il ajouta:
—Je règne maintenant avec Jésus-Christ; je suis couronné dans les cieux.
Je lui dis :
—Je sais que la bonté de Dieu est bien grande; cependant je n’osais penser que vous fussiez déjà entré dans la gloire, mais j’ai compris que c’était un chef-d’œuvre de la miséricorde divine.
Tout ce que je voyais, entendais et comprenais, me mettait hors de moi; l’excès de la divine charité envers cette âme me ravissait; les larmes et les sanglots accompagnaient cette émotion intérieure. Mais en ce doux moment la cloche du tour a sonné, et, comme l’obéissance m’appelait, j’ai quitté Notre-Seigneur pour aller remplir les devoirs de mon office. Alors, voulant m’assurer si ce que je venais de voir n’était point une illusion, j’ai demandé à une sœur que je rencontrai, et qui devait savoir le nom du prince en question, comment on l’appelait. Elle m’a répondu: “Il s’appelait Ferdinand”. Cette réponse a fait en moi une vive impression, parce que c’était la marque de la vérité; d’ailleurs, l’opération de Dieu en mon âme était des plus fortes ». [1]
L’Évangile de la Circoncision
«Comme ces bonnes gens voyaient que cette petite Bretonne, simple comme eux, entendait parfaitement leur langage et leurs peines, tâchant de les adoucir par la voix de la religion, ils s’en allaient contents; mais bientôt ils revenaient et m’amenaient leurs voisins; malgré la charité que j’avais pour eux, je m’excusais de les recevoir, afin de ne point m’éloigner de l’esprit de silence propre à notre sainte vocation. Notre-Seigneur, qui voyait cela, me donna le moyen de les satisfaire, et de plus celui de les soulager dans leurs maladies, en m’inspirant une dévotion qui consiste à porter sur soi l’Évangile de la Circoncision.
Voici comment je conçois cette pratique d’après ce qu’il m’a communiqué. Le démon met tout en œuvre pour ravir à Notre-Seigneur Jésus-Christ l’héritage conquis sur la croix, et il cherche sans cesse à dérober à ce bon Pasteur les brebis rachetées d’un si grand prix. Pour le mettre en fuite et empêcher ce loup ravisseur d’approcher du bercail, Jésus désire, comme il me l’a fait connaître, voir ses brebis marquées de son saint Nom et portant sur elles l’Évangile qui annonce à toutes les nations que le Verbe incarné a été nommé Jésus. Cet aimable Sauveur me fit connaître la vertu de ce Nom sacré : il chasserait le démon, et ceux qui auraient recours à cet acte de piété en recevraient de très grandes grâces. Il me dit aussi de mettre au bas de cet Évangile quelques paroles rappelant la victoire qu’il a remportée sur Satan en prenant par amour pour nous le nom de Jésus. Cette petite dévotion fut d’abord approuvée de mes supérieurs; leur charité permit plus tard qu’on imprimât l’Évangile de la Circoncision et qu’on gravât sur la même feuille le saint Enfant-Jésus et les initiales de son Nom adorable. La feuille était ensuite pliée et renfermée dans un petit morceau d’étoffe sur lequel on brodait une croix avec le Sacré-Cœur: ce qui faisait l’effet d’une médaille que l’on porte sur soi. Cette pratique reçut aussi l’approbation d’un grand vicaire [2], comme étant très conforme à l’esprit de l’Église ; car on voit dans l’histoire que les premiers chrétiens avaient l’habitude de porter sur eux le saint Évangile.
Notre-Seigneur m’avait fait connaître qu’il ne fallait point vendre ces pieux objets, mais les répandre en son nom, afin que tous pussent s’en procurer facilement; qu’il demandait cette aumône à la communauté pour sa gloire, et qu’il saurait bien l’en récompenser en prenant soin des affaires de la maison. Nos dignes supérieurs me donnèrent la permission de satisfaire le désir de l’Enfant-Jésus. Bientôt une infinité de personnes portèrent sur elles avec dévotion cet Évangile, et l’Enfant-Jésus ne tarda pas à les récompenser par des grâces spéciales [3]. J’étais continuellement occupée à disposer ces petits Évangiles; mais, quoique je fusse fort assidue à ce travail, je ne faisais pas assez pour contenter tous ceux qui en désiraient. Alors nos chères sœurs voulurent bien m’aider; j’étais enchantée de ce nouveau commerce, tout au profit et à la gloire du saint Enfant. Je fis pour lui un très joli petit Évangile, que je mis au cou de sa statue; comme il m’avait dit de ne point vendre ces objets et que beaucoup de gens riches voulaient donner quelque rétribution, je mis une bourse dans la main de mon petit roi, et nous disions à ces personnes: “Donnez ce que vous voudrez à Jésus, cela servira à lui acheter des langes”. Cet aimable Enfant leur payait au centuple ces aumônes par les grâces qu’il leur accordait. Il recueillit ainsi dans sa petite bourse une somme assez considérable. Alors notre Révérende Mère acheta des langes à Jésus, je veux dire des corporaux; la communauté, par les ordres de notre Mère, travailla ces langes, qui furent offerts au saint Enfant, en grande cérémonie, à sa fête du Saint-Sacrement et distribués dans l’octave aux paroisses pauvres du diocèse. on fit aussi un trousseau pour un pauvre petit enfant naissant, qui représentait la pauvreté de Jésus à sa naissance ».
«La bonne et candide sœur nous apprend encore que Notre-Seigneur demandait comme une aumône qu’on distribuât ces feuilles le plus possible et qu’on y écrivit à la fin ces mots:
Quand Jésus fut nommée,
Satan vaincu fut désarmé». [4]
«Il m’a fait connaître combien il lui était glorieux qu’on célébrât sa victoire par ces paroles; elles font frémir de rage le démon; il bénira les personnes qui porteront sur elles cet Évangile; il les défendra contre les attaques de Satan».
«Tandis que je cherchais les moyens de couvrir les frais de ces dépenses,[5] Notre-Seigneur m’ordonna de m’adresser à son serviteur, Monsieur Dupont, et de lui dire que l’Enfant-Jésus lui demandait cette œuvre de charité comme la dîme des biens qu’il lui avait donnés, et que cette œuvre lui serait fort agréable. Je dis alors à ce divin Sauveur:
—Si vous vouliez me promettre quelque bien pour lui, ou du moins quelque grâce pour sa famille.
Notre-Seigneur me répondit:
—Son amour est assez grand pour me rendre ce service sans qu’il soit besoin qu’on lui promette des grâces afin de l’y engager, et, pour cet amour désintéressé, je le récompenserai plus magnifiquement dans le ciel ; quant à vous, faites cette commission comme étant ma petite domestique; ne craignez point de demander pour moi, et vous aurez le même mérite que si vous faisiez l’œuvre.
«Voici à peu près les paroles que Notre-Seigneur m’a fait entendre:
—Ma fille, ne vous affligez point de ce que le travail de vos petits Évangiles ne vous laisse pas jouir de ma présence comme vous le voudriez ; car il vaut mieux sacrifier ces consolations pour empêcher que je ne sois offensé. J’ai dessein de sauver des âmes par cette dévotion, elle a déjà fait éviter plusieurs péchés.
[S’adressant à la Mère prieure, la sœur ajoute]:
«Notre-Seigneur m’a dit encore qu’il désirait qu’avec l’argent reçu des petits Évangiles, vous fassiez célébrer cinquante messes pour sa plus grande gloire et pour la salut des âmes, et qu’ensuite, si on en recueillait assez pour couvrir les frais d’une impression nouvelle des prières de la réparation, je devais être convaincue qu’il n’y a point d’illusion de ma part, mais reconnaître que ce divin Sauveur s’est communiqué à mon âme.
Vous savez que je ne pensais plus à réclamer l’impression de ces prières. D’après Monseigneur l’Archevêque, on ne peut les comprendre que difficilement; mais aujourd’hui Notre-Seigneur les demande pour les âmes religieuses, afin qu’elles attirent sa miséricorde sur la France, qu’elles apaisent sa justice et que les méchants soient confondus. J’abandonne ces choses à vos lumières, ma très Révérende Mère ; tout ce que je cherche, c’est que la sainte volonté de Dieu soit faite».
Les grâces obtenues
«A l’époque du tirage, plusieurs jeunes gens, sollicités par la tendresse de leurs mères, qui craignaient de perdre en eux leurs soutiens, ont consenti à porter sur eux le petit Évangile, et ne sont pas tombés au sort [6]. D’autres ont obtenu des conversions particulières. Ainsi, une jeune personne faisait gémir ses parents par les injures dont elle les accablait, se livrant à de terribles accès de colère; elle a porté le petit Évangile, et cela seul a suffi pour chasser le démon; elle a aussitôt demandé pardon à ses parents, et s’est approchée des sacrements. Un pécheur endurci, réduit à l’extrémité, refusait opiniâtrement de recevoir les secours de la religion; son respectable curé, désolé de voir cette brebis de son troupeau devenir la proie du loup infernal, eut recours au petit Évangile ; il en fit mettre un au pied du lit de ce malade, qui, touché aussitôt, demanda les sacrements et mourut en bon chrétien. Un autre, qui avait depuis de longues années abandonné la pratique de ses devoirs, voulut bien cependant porter le petit Évangile, et réciter la prière qui y est jointe; il sentit dès lors une grâce puissante, qui le sollicitait sans cesse de revenir à Dieu; il fut plusieurs mois rebelle, mais enfin, cédant à la vertu du saint Nom de Jésus, il alla se jeter aux pieds d’un confesseur, et sa parfaite conversion a rempli de joie ceux qui avaient gémi sur sa conduite passée.
Diverses personnes ont ressenti les effets merveilleux de cette salutaire dévotion, dans leurs maladies ou infirmités corporelles. Une petite fille a été délivrée d’une grosse fièvre, qui l’avait réduite à l’extrémité ; tout annonçait sa fin prochaine ; son oncle lui passa au cou le petit Évangile; ils le récitèrent pendant neuf jours avec les oraisons qui y sont jointes, et l’enfant fut parfaitement guérie.
Une dame avait à la gorge, depuis sept ans, un ulcère qui l’empêchait quelquefois de prendre sa nourriture ; elle avait même de la peine à faire la sainte communion; on lui avait administré beaucoup de remèdes inutilement. Ayant pris sur elle le petit Évangile, elle a été guérie si promptement, que les personnes qui la traitaient en furent d’un étonnement extrême; aussi leur a-t-elle fait connaître à quel divin remède elle devait sa guérison.
Un grand nombre de femmes enceintes ont été comme miraculeusement délivrées par le petit Évangile ; c’est surtout sur elles qu’il s’est opéré le plus de grâces extraordinaires.
Une petite fille, à qui nous avions donné un Évangile du saint Nom de Jésus, fit une chute très grave. Quand on la releva, elle ne pouvait faire aucun mouvement; ses parents, désolés, craignaient qu’elle n’eût les reins brisés, et voulaient aller chercher le médecin, lorsque l’enfant se mit à crier: “N’y allez point, mais donnez-moi ma petite relique ; le bon Jésus peut me guérir”. On lui mit au cou le petit Évangile; aussitôt elle cessa de crier, s’endormit profondément, et, à son réveil, se trouva guérie sans se ressentir aucunement de sa chute. La foi de cette enfant avait été récompensée; tous ceux qui croiront comme elle n’espéreront pas en vain.
Plusieurs missionnaires ont porté des Évangiles du saint Nom de Jésus dans les pays étrangers ; je citerai, en terminant, la conversion d’un grand pécheur.
Le 26 décembre 1845, il vint une personne, tout éplorée, recommander aux prières un homme qui était à l’extrémité; «mais, disait-elle, il n’y a pas moyen de lui parler des sacrements, car il est comme un furieux». On remit à cette personne un petit Évangile pour le passer au cou du malade, et une feuille pour réciter les prières du saint Nom de Jésus. Cette dame, pleine de foi et de zèle, ayant appris que deux hommes devaient veiller toute la nuit auprès du moribond, les pria de tâcher de lui mettre au cou le petit Évangile, et de réciter les prières de la feuille ; ils le lui promirent, et s’acquittèrent de leur mission auprès de ce malheureux, qui parut tout d’un coup changé. Le voyant plus calme, ils lui proposèrent un prêtre; il accepta, et, après s’être confessé, il reçu le saint viatique et mourut dans de très bonnes dispositions. Satan, furieux de voir cette proie lui échapper, a, pour s’en venger sans doute, tourné sa rage contre moi. Dieu sait ce que j’ai souffert de lui au moment de la mort de cet homme; pendant deux heures, j’avais autour de moi comme une légion de démons; j’étais comme possédée ; il me semblait entendre leur voix horrible me solliciter par leurs discours les plus séduisantes; l’action de ces esprits infernaux à mon égard était des plus violentes ; je n’avais jamais eu pareil combat à soutenir; mais le divin Époux de mon âme m’a fortifiée par sa puissance, et sa grâce m’a rendue victorieuse. J’allai me jeter aux pieds de notre Révérende Mère, qui fut effrayée en voyant la pâleur de mon visage ; je lui découvris les angoisses de mon pauvre cœur; elle eut la charité de me consoler, et, quand elle m’eut donné sa bénédiction, je me sentis aussitôt délivrée et je passai la nuit dans la paix du Seigneur ».
La Salette
«Monseigneur ne voulait point se décider en faveur de l’œuvre; sa prudence l’empêchait de prendre cette initiative. je vis bien qu’il n’y avait d’espérance et de consolation pour moi que dans la prière, par l’entremise de Marie, notre puissante avocate, et je récitai tous les jours le chapelet afin d’obtenir le salut de la France et l’établissement de la Réparation dans toutes les villes du royaume; toutes mes prières et mes communions, tous mes désirs, toutes mes pensées se dirigeaient vers cette œuvre si chère à mon cœur. J’aurais voulu, si cela eût été possible, la proclamer par toute la France, en faisant connaître à ma patrie les malheurs qui la menaçaient. Ah ! que je souffre d’être seule dépositaire d’une chose qui est si importante, et que je suis obligée de garder dans le silence du cloître! Vierge sainte, apparaissez dans le monde à quelqu’un, et faites-lui part de ce qui m’est communiqué au sujet de la France.»[7]
Lettre de Monsieur Dupont
[Suite à une communication de Sœur Marie de Sainte à la Mère Supérieure, juste au début du mois de septembre 1846, et, avant l’apparition [8] sur la «sainte montagne»...]
«En 1846, vers les premiers jours du mois de septembre, à la veille de partir avec ma famille pour Saint-Servan, en Bretagne, j’allai prendre le commissions de la Révérende Mère, dont quelques parents demeuraient à Saint-Malo. Je fus obligé d’écrire la liste, assez longue, des commissions qui m’étaient données. Nous nous entretînmes ensuite de la sœur Marie de Saint-Pierre.
Voici ce qu’elle vient de me dire — ajouta la Révérende Mère. Et comme au même instant je me trouvais un crayon à la main, j’écrivis ce qui suit: Notre-Seigneur s’adressant à la sœur, lui dit : Ma mère a parlé aux hommes de ma colère; elle veut la fléchir; elle m’a montré son sein et m’a dit : “Voilà le sein qui vous a nourri, laissez-lui répandre des bénédictions sur mes autres enfants” .Alors elle est descendue, pleine de miséricorde, sur la terre; ayez donc confiance en elle.
Je mis ces lignes dans mon livre de prières et je n’y pensai plus. Ne me trouvais-je pas devant un langage mystérieux, où le passé se confondait avec le présent et le futur ? Je me contentai donc de me maintenir, d’une manière un peu vague, dans la conviction où j’étais depuis longtemps, que la sœur était la confidente de Notre-Seigneur. Cette conviction prit un nouvel essor lorsque, le 22 octobre de la même année, je reçus copie de la première lettre de Monsieur le curé Corps, relative à l’apparition de la sainte Vierge à la Salette, le 19 septembre. C’était l’accomplissement de la prédiction des premiers jours de septembre. J’en fis une copie et me hâtai de l’expédier à Monsieur le curé de Corps, qui ne tarda pas à m’écrire: “Dès le premier jour, j’ai cru ; aujourd’hui, si on peut parler ainsi, je crois double”.
Je m’étais fait une loi de ne rien écrire de ce qui m’était révélé, en secret, des communications de la sœur Saint-Pierre. Mais il est évident que, dans le cas dont je viens de parler, j’obéissais à un bon mouvement, puisque la phrase que j’ai transcrite ne se trouve pas dans le recueil des Révélations. A ce propos, la Révérende Mère me dit:
—J’ordonnais toujours à la sœur de mettre par écrit ce qu’elle voulait me rapporter; mais il est probable que, dans la circonstance actuelle, je l’aurai écoutée, et par mégarde j’aurai oublié ma formule ordinaire, qui tendait à la tenir dans l’humilité: Ma fille, par obéissance, allez écrire ce que vous voulez dire, je n’ai pas le temps de vous écouter. Or, j’ai bien pu, dans l’espace de cinq ans, faire plusieurs fois le même oubli, surtout lorsque la communication était courte et débitée avec la volubilité ordinaire de la sœur. Et dans ces cas-là elle se serait bien gardée de prendre la plume.
Cette explication est bien simple, bien naturelle, ce semble, et tout à fait concluante.
Il est touchant, plus qu’on ne peut penser et dire, de voir notre auguste Mère confier à de pauvres petits enfants les amertumes de son cœur maternel. N’est-il pas suffisant qu’elle ait été arrosée du sang de son divin Fils sur le Calvaire ? Faut-il aujourd’hui qu’une génération impie, le blasphème à la bouche, rappelle les affreuses stations des rues de Jérusalem ? Et que deviendrons-nous, si Marie ne peut plus retenir le bras de Jésus ?...» [9]
La joie de sœur Saint-Pierre
«Je vous rends grâces, ô divine Marie, de m’avoir donné ces deux petits bergers, comme des trompettes éclatantes pour faire retentir sur la montagne, aux oreilles de la France, ce qui m’a été communiqué dans la solitude. La voix de mes chers petits associés fut bientôt entendue de toute la terre; leurs publications produisirent une grande impression sur les âmes; le rapport si frappant de leur communications avec les miennes fit penser à mes dignes supérieurs qu’il serait utile d’en donner connaissance pour la gloire de Dieu et l’avancement de son œuvre.
Notre-Seigneur dans l’Évangile a dit: “Je vous bénis, mon Père, de ce que vous avez caché ces choses aux sages et aux grands du siècle, et vous les avez révélées aux petits; oui, ô Père, parce qu’il vous a plu d’en agir ainsi”. Il me semble que nous pouvons appliquer ces paroles à l’œuvre de la Réparation et aux pauvres petits instruments dont Dieu s’est servi pour l’établir dans l’Église. O mon Dieu, que vos voies sont incompréhensibles et cachées aux yeux des hommes ! Qui ne sera dans l’étonnement en voyant ce que Notre-Seigneur et la sainte Vierge ont accompli pour faire naître une si grande œuvre ? Ils ont choisi sur la terre une petite trinité de personnes, les plus ignorantes, les plus méprisables, dans l’âme desquelles ils ont opéré des prodiges de grâce, afin de les rendre propres à concourir ensemble à l’accomplissement des desseins de l’adorable Trinité pour la gloire de son très saint Nom. La première est une petite bergère qui s’était consacrée au saint Enfant-Jésus pour garder ses brebis sur la montagne du Carmel; les deux autres sont deux petits bergers qui gardaient leurs troupeaux sur la montagne de la Salette. Ces trois petits missionnaires sont chargés d’annoncer à la France les malheurs dont elle es menacée, à cause de la transgression des commandements du Seigneur; tous les trois ont aussi mission d’annoncer pardon et miséricorde, si l’on revient à Dieu par la pénitence.
Ces trois messagers travaillent ensemble à la même œuvre; chacun fait sa partie selon sa profession; la petite bergère du Carmel est chargée de prier, d’écrire, de garder le silence dans sa solitude; les petits bergers de la Salette, au contraire, doivent parler à haute voix sur le sommet de la montagne; et paraître en public aux yeux d’innombrables pèlerins qui viennent entendre leurs prédications. Bientôt tous sont instruits des crimes que le ciel leur reproche et de la colère divine allumée contre eux; ils sont consternés, et se demandent ce qu’ils feront pour la désarmer. Consolez-vous: la bergère du Carmel sait le secret d’apaiser la justice, allez la visiter. Comme les bergers de la Salette, elle vous dira: Dieu est extrêmement irrité contre son peuple à cause de la violation du dimanche et des blasphèmes. depuis quatre ans, elle entend gronder l’orage qui menace la France; mais votre sort est entre vos mains. Offrez pour vos crimes une œuvre réparatrice, et vous obtiendrez miséricorde; vous verrez alors couler «le lait et le miel » du sein de « la montagne de Dieu». Marie est cette montagne mystérieuse qui, par l’excellence de son élection, était élevée au-dessus des anges et des saints!
Cependant n’ayez pas une confiance présomptueuse. Prions, prions et pleurons nos péchés; car il viendra un temps, qui n’est pas éloigné, où la France sera ébranlée jusque dans ses fondements. Alors elle tremblera; mais elle ne sera pas engloutie, si aux yeux du Seigneur apparaît l’œuvre réparatrice dans les villes de ce royaume: celle qui devait être réduite en cendres ne sera que légèrement blessée.»[10]
[1] « Cette communication fut, comme toutes les autres, mise sous les yeux de Monseigneur Morlot. Ce prélat en fut si frappé et y vit tellement une inspiration surnaturelle, qu’il crut devoir en écrire à la pieuse mère du défunt, la reine Amélie, qu’on savait tristement préoccupée du sort éternel de son fils. Il est facile de comprendre quelle précieuse et légitime consolation procura à cette chrétienne inquiète et affligée la charitable démarche de l’archevêque ». Abbé Janvier: “Vie de la Sœur Marie de Saint-Pierre”.
[2] Ce n’était qu’une approbation verbale. Plus tard, quinze jours après la mort de la Sœur, Monsieur Dupont obtint l’approbation officielle.
[3] Document G, page 1.
[4] Abbé Janvier: “La vie de la Sœur Marie de Saint-Pierre”.
[5] Dans les premiers temps...
[6] N’ont pas été appelés à faire leur service militaire.
[7] Document C, page 57.
[8] La Vierge Marie est apparue, le 19 septembre 1846, à La Salette, dans les Alpes, diocèse de Grenoble, à deux petits enfants: Mélanie et Maximin.
Notre Mère du ciel y est apparue en pleurs... Elle y demanda, à « son peuple » — la France — la sanctification du saint jour du Dimanche et la réparation du blasphème. « Si mon peuple ne veut pas se soumettre, je suis forcée de laisser aller le bras de mon Fils; il est si lourd que je ne puis plus le retenir. Oh! si vous saviez combien je souffre pour vous!... » Elle confia également aux enfants un secret assez important sur l’état et l’avenir de l’Église. Ce même secret suscita bien des polémiques. Il fut, malgré cela, approuvé à Rome, par le Chanoine Lippidi. Mélanie, quand à elle, entra au couvent et, après bien des vicissitudes, rendit son âme à Dieu à Altamura, en Italie, où son corps repose. Maximin, après avoir été zouave pontifical, mourut presque dans l’oubli.
[9] Abbé Janvier - « Vie de Monsieur Dupont », T 1, page 161. — Document T, page 9.
[10] Document C. page 63.
In the year 1164 from the Incarnation of our Lord, in the fourth year of the papacy of Alexander, in the tenth year of the most illustrious king of the English, Henry II., in the presence of that same king, this memorandum or inquest was made of some part of the customs and liberties and dignities of his predecessors, viz., of king Henry his grandfather and others, which ought to be observed and kept in the kingdom. And on account of the dissensions and discords which had arisen between the clergy and the Justices of the lord king, and the barons of the kingdom, concerning the customs and dignities, this inquest was made in the presence of the archbishops and bishops, and clergy and counts, and barons and chiefs of the kingdom. And these customs, recognized by the archbishops and bishops and counts and barons and by the nobler ones and elders of the kingdom, Thomas Archbishop of Canterbury, and Roger archbishop of York, and Gilbert bishop of London, and Henry bishop of Winchester, and Nigel bishop of Ely, and William bishop of Norwich, and Robert bishop of Lincoln, and Hilary bishop of Chichester, and Jocelin bishop of Salisbury, and Richard bishop of Chester, and Bartholemew bishop of Exeter, and Robert bishop of Hereford, and David bishop of le Mans, and Roger elect of Worcester, did grant; and, upon the Word of Truth did orally firmly promise to keep and observe, under the lord king and under his heirs, in good faith and without evil wile,—in the presence of the following: Robert count of Leicester, Reginald count of Cornwall, Conan count of Bretagne, John count of Eu, Roger count of Clare, count Geoffrey of Mandeville, Hugo count of Chester, William count of Arundel, count Patrick, William count of Ferrara, Richard de Luce, Reginald de St. Walerio, Roger Bigot, Reginald de Warren, Richer de Aquila, William de Braiose, Richard de Camville, Nigel de Mowbray, Simon de Bello Campo, Humphrey de Bohen, Matthew de Hereford, Walter de Medway, Manas sa Biseth—steward, William Malet, William de Curcy, Robert de Dunstanville, Jocelin de Balliol, William de Lanvale, William de Caisnet, Geoffrey de Vere, William de Hastings, Hugo de Moreville, Alan de Neville, Simon son of Peter, William Malduit—chamberlain, John Malduit, John Marshall, Peter de Mare, and many other chiefs and nobles of the kingdom, clergy as well as laity.
A certain part, moreover, of the customs and dignities of the kingdom which were examined into, is contained in the present writing. Of which part these are the paragraphs;
§ 1. If a controversy concerning advowsou and presentation of churches arise between laymen, or between laymen and clerks, or between clerks, it shall be treated of and terminated in the court of the lord king.
§ 2. Churches of the fee of the lord king cannot, unto all time, be given without his assent and concession.
§ 3. Clerks charged and accused of anything, being summoned by the Justice of the king, shall come into his court, about to respond there for what it seems to the king's court that he should respond there; and in the ecclesiastical court for what it seems he should respond there; so that the Justice of the king shall send to the court of the holy church to see in what manner the affair will there be carried on. And if the clerk shall be convicted, or shall confess, the church ought not to protect him further.
§ 4. It is not lawful for archbishops, bishops, and persons of the kingdom to go out of the kingdom without the permission of the lord king. And if it please the king and they go out, they shall give assurance that neither in going, nor in making a stay, nor in returning, will they seek the hurt or harm of king or kingdom.
§ 5. The excommunicated shall not give a pledge as a permanency, nor take an oath, but only a pledge and surety of presenting themselves before the tribunal of the church, that they may be absolved.
§ 6. Laymen ought not to be accused unless through reliable and legal accusers and witnesses in the presence of the bishop, in such wise that the archdean do not lose his right, nor any thing which he ought to have from it . And if those who are inculpated are such that no one wishes or dares to accuse them, the sheriff, being requested by the bishop, shall cause twelve lawful men of the neighbourhood or town to swear in the presence of the bishop, that they will make manifest the truth in this matter, according to their conscience.
§ 7. No one who holds of the king in chief, and no one of his demesne servitors, shall be excommunicated, nor shall the lands of any one of them be placed under an interdict, unless first the lord king, if he be in the land, or his Justice, if he be without the kingdom, be asked to do justice concerning him: and in such way that what shall pertain to the king's court shall there be terminated; and with regard to that which concerns the ecclesiastical court, lie shall be sent thither in order that it may there be treated of.
§ 8. Concerning appeals, if they shall arise, from the archdean they shall proceed to the bishop, from the bishop to the archbishop. And if the archbishop shall fail to render justice, they must come finally to the lord king, in order that by his command the controversy may be terminated in the court of the archbishop, so that it shall not proceed further without the consent of the lord king.
§ 9. If a quarrel arise between a clerk and a layman or between a layman and a clerk concerning any tenement which the clerk wishes to attach to the church property, but the layman to a lay fee: by the inquest of twelve lawful men, through the judgment of the chief Justice of the king, it shall be determined, in the presence of the Justice himself, whether the tenement belongs to the church property, or to the lay fee. And if it be recognized as belonging to the church property, the case shall be pleaded in the ecclesiastical court; but if to the lay fee, tmless both are holders from the same bishop or biron, the case shall be pleaded in the king's court. But if both vouch to warranty for that fee before the same bishop or baron, the case shall be pleaded in his court; in such way that, on account of the inquest made, he who was first in possession shall not lose his seisin, until, through the pleading, the case shall have been proven.
§ 10. Whoever shall belong to the city or castle or fortress or demesne manor of the lord king, if he be summoned by the archdean or bishop for any offence for which he ought to respond to them, and he be unwilling to answer their summonses, it is perfectly right to place him under the interdict; but he ought not to be excommunicated until the chief servitor of the lord king of that town shall be asked to compel him by law to answer the summonses. And if the servitor of the king be negligent in this matter, he himself shall be at the mercy of the lord king, and the bishop may thenceforth visit the man who was accused with ecclesiastical justice.
§ 11. Archbishops, bishops, and all persons of the kingdom who hold of the king in chief have their possessions of the lord king as a barony, and answer for them to the Justices and servitors of the king, and follow and perform all the customs and duties as regards the king; and, like other barons, they ought to be present with the barons at the judgments of the court of the lord king, until it comes to a judgment to loss of life or limb.
§ 12. When an archbishopric is vacant, or a bishopric, or an abbey, or a priory of the demesne of the king, it ought to be in his hand; and he ought to receive all the revenues and incomes from it, as demesne ones. And, when it comes to providing for the church, the lord king should summon the more important persons of the church, and, in the lord king's own chapel, the election ought to take place with the assent of the lord king and with the counsel of the persons of the kingdom whom he had called for this purpose. And there, before he is consecrated, the person elected shall do homage and fealty to the lord king as to his liege lord, for his life and his members and his earthly honours, saving his order.
§ 13. If any of the nobles of the kingdom shall have dispossessed an archbishop or bishop or archdean, the lord king should compel them personally or through their families to do justice. And if by chance any one shall have dispossessed the lord king of his right, the archbishops and bishops and archdeans ought to compel him to render satisfaction to the lord king.
§ 14. A church or cemetery shall not, contrary to the king's justice, detain the chattels of those who are under penalty of forfeiture to the king, for they (the chattels) are the king's, whether they are found within the churches or without them.
§ 15. Pleas concerning debts which are due through the giving of a bond, or without the giving of a bond, shall be in the jurisdiction of the king.
§ 16. The sons of rustics may not be ordained without the consent of the lord on whose land they are known to have been born.
Moreover, a record of the aforesaid royal customs and dignities has been made by the aforesaid archbishops and bishops, and counts and barons, and nobles and elders of the kingdom at Clarendon on the fourth day before the Purification of the blessed Mary the perpetual Virgin; the lord Henry being there present with his father the lord king. There are, moreover, many other and great customs and dignities of the holy mother church, and of the lord king, and of the barons of the kingdom, which are not contained in this writ. And may they be preserved to the holy church, and to the lord king, and to his heirs, and to the barons of the kingdom, and may they be inviolablv observed for ever.
CHAPTER II. MONSIEUR DE GARNACHE
To promise rashly, particularly where a woman is the suppliant, and afterwards, if not positively to repent the promise, at least to regret that one did not hedge it with a few conditions, is a proceeding not uncommon to youth. In a man of advanced age, such as Monsieur de Tressan, it never should have place; and, indeed, it seldom has, unless that man has come again under the sway of the influences by which youth, for good or ill, is governed.
Whilst the flush of his adoration was upon him, hot from the contact of her presence, he knew no repentance, found room in his mind for no regrets. He crossed to the window, and pressed his huge round face to the pane, in a futile effort to watch her mount and ride out of the courtyard with her little troop of attendants. Finding that he might not—the window being placed too high—gratify his wishes in that connection, he dropped into his chair, and sat in the fast-deepening gloom, reviewing, fondly here, hurriedly there, the interview that had but ended.
Thus night fell, and darkness settled down about him, relieved only by the red glow of the logs smouldering on the hearth. In the gloom inspiration visited him. He called for lights and Babylas. Both came, and he dispatched the lackey that lighted the tapers to summon Monsieur d’Aubran, the commander of the garrison of Grenoble.
In the interval before the soldier’s coming he conferred with Babylas concerning what he had in mind, but he found his secretary singularly dull and unimaginative. So that, perforce, he must fall back upon himself. He sat glum and thoughtful, his mind in unproductive travail, until the captain was announced.
Still without any definite plan, he blundered headlong, nevertheless, into the necessary first step towards the fulfilment of his purpose.
“Captain,” said he, looking mighty grave, “I have cause to believe that all is not as it should be in the hills in the district of Montelimar.”
“Is there trouble, monsieur?” inquired the captain, startled.
“Maybe there is, maybe there is not,” returned the Seneschal mysteriously. “You shall have your full orders in the morning. Meanwhile, make ready to repair to the neighbourhood of Montelimar to-morrow with a couple of hundred men.”
“A couple of hundred, monsieur!” exclaimed d’Aubran. “But that will be to empty Grenoble of soldiers.”
“What of it? We are not likely to require them here. Let your orders for preparation go round tonight, so that your knaves may be ready to set out betimes to-morrow. If you will be so good as to wait upon me early you shall have your instructions.”
Mystified, Monsieur d’Aubran departed on his errand, and my Lord Seneschal went down to supper well pleased with the cunning device by which he was to leave Grenoble without a garrison. It was an astute way of escape from the awkward situation into which his attachment to the interests of the dowager of Condillac was likely to place him.
But when the morning came he was less pleased with the idea, chiefly because he had been unable to invent any details that should lend it the necessary colour, and d’Aubran—worse luck—was an intelligent officer who might evince a pardonable but embarrassing curiosity. A leader of soldiers has a right to know something at least of the enterprise upon which he leads them. By morning, too, Tressan found that the intervening space of the night, since he had seen Madame de Condillac, had cooled his ardour very considerably.
He had reached the incipient stages of regret of his rash promise.
When Captain d’Aubran was announced to him, he bade them ask him to come again in an hour’s time. From mere regrets he was passing now, through dismay, into utter repentance of his promise. He sat in his study, at his littered writing-table, his head in his hands, a confusion of thoughts, a wild, frenzied striving after invention in his brain.
Thus Anselme found him when he thrust aside the portiere to announce that a Monsieur de Garnache, from Paris, was below, demanding to see the Lord Seneschal at once upon an affair of State.
Tressan’s flesh trembled and his heart fainted. Then, suddenly, desperately, he took his courage in both hands. He remembered who he was and what he was the King’s Lord Seneschal of the Province of Dauphiny. Throughout that province, from the Rhone to the Alps, his word was law, his name a terror to evildoers—and to some others besides. Was he to blench and tremble at the mention of the name of a Court lackey out of Paris, who brought him a message from the Queen-Regent? Body of God! not he.
He heaved himself to his feet, warmed and heartened by the thought; his eye sparkled, and there was a deeper flush than usual upon his cheek.
“Admit this Monsieur de Garnache,” said he with a fine loftiness, and in his heart he pondered what he would say and how he should say it; how he should stand, how move, and how look. His roving eye caught sight of his secretary. He remembered something—the cherished pose of being a man plunged fathoms-deep in business. Sharply he uttered his secretary’s name.
Babylas raised his pale face; he knew what was coming; it had come so many times before. But there was no vestige of a smile on his drooping lips, no gleam of amusement in his patient eye. He thrust aside the papers on which he was at work, and drew towards him a fresh sheet on which to pen the letter which, he knew by experience, Tressan was about to indite to the Queen-mother. For these purposes Her Majesty was Tressan’s only correspondent.
Then the door opened, the portiere was swept aside, and Anselme announced “Monsieur de Garnache.”
Tressan turned as the newcomer stepped briskly into the room, and bowed, hat in hand, its long crimson feather sweeping the ground, then straightened himself and permitted the Seneschal to take his measure.
Tressan beheld a man of a good height, broad to the waist and spare thence to the ground, who at first glance appeared to be mainly clad in leather. A buff jerkin fitted his body; below it there was a glimpse of wine-coloured trunks, and hose of a slightly deeper hue, which vanished immediately into a pair of huge thighboots of untanned leather. A leather swordbelt, gold-embroidered at the edges, carried a long steel-halted rapier in a leather scabbard chaped with steel. The sleeves of his doublet which protruded from his leather casing were of the same colour and material as his trunks. In one hand he carried his broad black hat with its crimson feather, in the other a little roll of parchment; and when he moved the creak of leather and jingle of his spurs made pleasant music for a martial spirit.
Above all, this man’s head, well set upon his shoulders, claimed some attention. His nose was hooked and rather large, his eyes were blue, bright as steel, and set a trifle wide. Above a thin-lapped, delicate mouth his reddish mustachios, slightly streaked with grey, stood out, bristling like a cat’s. His hair was darker—almost brown save at the temples, where age had faded it to an ashen colour. In general his aspect was one of rugged strength.
The Seneschal, measuring him with an adversary’s eye, misliked his looks. But he bowed urbanely, washing his hands in the air, and murmuring:
“Your servant, Monsieur de—?”
“Garnache,” came the other’s crisp, metallic voice, and the name had a sound as of an oath on his lips. “Martin Marie Rigobert de Garnache. I come to you on an errand of Her Majesty’s, as this my warrant will apprise you.” And he proffered the paper he held, which Tressan accepted from his hand.
A change was visible in the wily Seneschal’s fat countenance. Its round expanse had expressed interrogation until now; but at the Parisian’s announcement that he was an emissary of the Queen’s, Tressan insinuated into it just that look of surprise and of increased deference which would have been natural had he not already been forewarned of Monsieur de Garnache’s mission and identity.
He placed a chair at his visitor’s disposal, himself resuming his seat at his writing-table, and unfolding the paper Garnache had given him. The newcomer seated himself, hitched his sword-belt round so that he could lean both hands upon the hilt, and sat, stiff and immovable, awaiting the Lord Seneschal’s pleasure. From his desk across the room the secretary, idly chewing the feathered end of his goose-quill, took silent stock of the man from Paris, and wondered.
Tressan folded the paper carefully, and returned it to its owner. It was no more than a formal credential, setting forth that Garnache was travelling into Dauphiny on a State affair, and commanding Monsieur de Tressan to give him every assistance he might require in the performance of his errand.
“Parfaitement,” purred the Lord Seneschal. “And now, monsieur, if you will communicate to me the nature of your affair, you shall find me entirely at your service.”
“It goes without saying that you are acquainted with the Chateau de Condillac?” began Garnache, plunging straight into business.
“Perfectly.” The Seneschal leaned back, and was concerned to feel his pulses throbbing a shade too quickly. But he controlled his features, and maintained a placid, bland expression.
“You are perhaps acquainted with its inhabitants?”
“Yes.”
“Intimate with them?”
The Seneschal pursed his lips, arched his brows, and slowly waved his podgy hands, a combination of grimace and gesture that said much or nothing. But reflecting that Monsieur de Tressan had a tongue, Garnache apparently did not opine it worth his while to set a strain upon his own imagination, for—
“Intimate with them?” he repeated, and this time there was a sharper note in his voice.
Tressan leaned forward and brought his finger-tips together. His voice was as urbane as it lay within its power to be.
“I understood that monsieur was proposing to state his business, not to question mine.”
Garnache sat back in his chair, and his eyes narrowed. He scented opposition, and the greatest stumbling-block in Garnache’s career had been that he could never learn to brook opposition from any man. That characteristic, evinced early in life, had all but been the ruin of him. He was a man of high intellectual gifts, of military skill and great resource; out of consideration for which had he been chosen by Marie de Medicis to come upon this errand. But he marred it all by a temper so ungovernable that in Paris there was current a byword, “Explosive as Garnache.”
Little did Tressan dream to what a cask of gunpowder he was applying the match of his smug pertness. Nor did Garnache let him dream it just yet. He controlled himself betimes, bethinking him that, after all, there might be some reason in what this fat fellow said.
“You misapprehend my purpose, sir,” said he, his lean brown hand stroking his long chin. “I but sought to learn how far already you may be informed of what is taking place up there, to the end that I may spare myself the pains of citing facts with which already you are acquainted. Still, monsieur, I am willing to proceed upon the lines which would appear to be more agreeable to yourself.
“This, then, is the sum of the affair that brings me: The late Marquis de Condillac left two sons. The elder, Florimond—who is the present marquis, and who has been and still continues absent, warring in Italy, since before his father’s death—is the stepson of the present Dowager, she being the mother of the younger son, Marius de Condillac.
“Should you observe me to be anywhere at error, I beg, monsieur, that you will have the complaisance to correct me.”
The Seneschal bowed gravely, and Monsieur de Garnache continued:
“Now this younger son—I believe that he is in his twenty-first year at present—has been something of a scapegrace.”
“A scapegrace? Bon Dieu, no. That is a harsh name to give him. A little indiscreet at times, a little rash, as is the way of youth.”
He would have said more, but the man from Paris was of no mind to waste time on quibbles.
“Very well,” he snapped, cutting in. “We will say, a little indiscreet. My errand is not concerned with Monsieur Marius’s morals or with his lack of them. These indiscretions which you belittle appear to have been enough to have estranged him from his father, a circumstance which but served the more to endear him to his mother. I am told that she is a very handsome woman, and that the boy favours her surprisingly.”
“Ah!” sighed the Seneschal in a rapture. “A beautiful woman—a noble, splendid woman.’
“Hum!” Garnache observed the ecstatic simper with a grim eye. Then he proceeded with his story.
“The late marquis possessed in his neighbour, the also deceased Monsieur de La Vauvraye, a very dear and valued friend. Monsieur de La Vauvraye had an only child, a daughter, to inherit his very considerable estates probably the wealthiest in all Dauphiny, so I am informed. It was the dearest wish of his heart to transform what had been a lifelong friendship in his own generation into a closer relationship in the next—a wish that found a very ready echo in the heart of Monsieur de Condillac. Florimond de Condillac was sixteen years of age at the time, and Valerie de La Vauvraye fourteen. For all their tender years, they were betrothed, and they grew up to love each other and to look forward to the consummation of the plans their fathers had laid for them.”
“Monsieur, monsieur,” the Seneschal protested, “how can you possibly infer so much? How can you say that they loved each other? What authority can you have for pretending to know what was in their inmost hearts?”
“The authority of Mademoiselle de La Vauvraye,” was the unanswerable rejoinder. “I am telling you, more or less, what she herself wrote to the Queen.”
“Ah! Well, well—proceed, monsieur.”
“This marriage should render Florimond de Condillac the wealthiest and most powerful gentleman in Dauphiny—one of the wealthiest in France; and the idea of it pleased the old marquis, inasmuch as the disparity there would be between the worldly possessions of his two sons would serve to mark his disapproval of the younger. But before settling down, Florimond signified a desire to see the world, as was fit and proper and becoming in a young man who was later to assume such wide responsibilities. His father, realizing the wisdom of such a step, made but slight objection, and at the age of twenty Florimond set out for the Italian wars. Two years afterwards, a little over six months ago, his father died, and was followed to the grave some weeks later by Monsieur de La Vauvraye. The latter, with a want of foresight which has given rise to the present trouble, misjudging the character of the Dowager of Condillac, entrusted to her care his daughter Valerie pending Florimond’s return, when the nuptials would naturally be immediately celebrated. I am probably telling you no more than you already know. But you owe the infliction to your own unwillingness to answer my questions.”
“No, no, monsieur; I assure you that in what you say there is much that is entirely new to me.”
“I rejoice to hear it, Monsieur de Tressan,” said Garnache very seriously, “for had you been in possession of all these facts, Her Majesty might have a right to learn how it chanced that you had nowise interfered in what is toward at Condillac.
“But to proceed: Madame de Condillac and her precious Benjamin—this Marius—finding themselves, in Florimond’s absence, masters of the situation, have set about turning it to their own best advantage. Mademoiselle de La Vauvraye, whilst being nominally under their guardianship, finds herself practically gaoled by them, and odious plans are set before her to marry Marius. Could the Dowager but accomplish this, it would seem that she would not only be assuring a future of ease and dignity for her son, but also be giving vent to all her pent-up hatred of her stepson.
“Mademoiselle, however, withstands them, and in this she is aided by a fortuitous circumstance which has arisen out of the overbearing arrogance that appears to be madame’s chief characteristic. Condillac after the marquis’s death had refused to pay tithes to Mother Church and has flouted and insulted the Bishop. This prelate, after finding remonstrance vain, has retorted by placing Condillac under an Interdict, depriving all within it of the benefit of clergy. Thus, they have been unable to find a priest to venture thither, so that even had they willed to marry mademoiselle by force to Marius, they lacked the actual means of doing so.
“Florimond continues absent. We have every reason to believe that he has been left in ignorance of his father’s death. Letters coming from him from time to time prove that he was alive and well at least until three months ago. A messenger has been dispatched to find him and urge him to return home at once. But pending his arrival the Queen has determined to take the necessary steps to ensure that Mademoiselle de La Vauvraye shall be released from her captivity, that she shall suffer no further molestation at the hands of Madame de Condillac and her son—enfin, that she shall run no further risks.
“My errand, monsieur, is to acquaint you with these facts, and to request you to proceed to Condillac and deliver thence Mademoiselle de La Vauvraye, whom I am subsequently to escort to Paris and place under Her Majesty’s protection until such time as the new marquis shall return to claim her.”
Having concluded, Monsieur de Garnache sat back in his chair, and threw one leg over the other, fixing his eyes upon the Seneschal’s face and awaiting his reply.
On that gross countenance before him he saw fall the shadow of perplexity. Tressan was monstrous ill-at-ease, and his face lost a good deal of its habitual plethora of colour. He sought to temporize.
“Does it not occur to you, monsieur, that perhaps too much importance may have been attached to the word of this child—this Mademoiselle de La Vauvraye?”
“Does it occur to you that such has been the case, that she has overstated it?” counter-questioned Monsieur de Garnache.
“No, no. I do not say that. But—but—would it not be better—more—ah—satisfactory to all concerned, if you yourself were to go to Condillac, and deliver your message in person, demanding mademoiselle?”
The man from Paris looked at him a moment, then stood up suddenly, and shifted the carriages of his sword back to their normal position. His brows came together in a frown, from which the Seneschal argued that his suggestion was not well received.
“Monsieur,” said the Parisian very coldly, like a man who contains a rising anger, “let me tell you that this is the first time in my life that I have been concerned in anything that had to do with women and I am close upon forty years of age. The task, I can assure you, was little to my taste. I embarked upon it because, being a soldier and having received my orders, I was in the unfortunate position of being unable to help myself. But I intend, monsieur, to adhere rigidly to the letter of these commands. Already I have endured more than enough in the interests of this damsel. I have ridden from Paris, and that means close upon a week in the saddle—no little thing to a man who has acquired certain habits of life and developed a taste for certain minor comforts which he is very reluctant to forgo. I have fed and slept at inns, living on the worst of fares and sleeping on the hardest, and hardly the cleanest, of beds. Ventregris! Figure to yourself that last night we lay at Luzan, in the only inn the place contained—a hovel, Monsieur le Seneschal, a hovel in which I would not kennel a dog I loved.”
His face flushed, and his voice rose as he dwelt upon the things he had undergone.
“My servant and I slept in a dormitory’—a thousand devils! monsieur, in a dormitory! Do you realize it? We had for company a drunken vintner, a pedlar, a pilgrim on his way to Rome, and two peasant women; and they sent us to bed without candles, for modesty’s sake. I ask you to conceive my feelings in such a case as that. I could tell you more; but that as a sample of what I have undergone could scarcely be surpassed.”
“Truly-truly outrageous,” sympathized the Seneschal; yet he grinned.
“I ask you—have I not suffered inconvenience enough already in the service of Mademoiselle de La Vauvraye that you can blame me if I refuse to go a single step further than my orders bid me?”
The Seneschal stared at him now in increasing dismay. Had his own interests been less at issue he could have indulged his mirth at the other’s fiery indignation at the inconveniences he recited. As it was, he had nothing to say; no thought or feeling other than what concerned finding a way of escape from the net that seemed to be closing in about him—how to seem to serve the Queen without turning against the Dowager of Condillac; how to seem to serve the Dowager without opposing the wishes of the Queen.
“A plague on the girl!” he growled, unconsciously uttering his thoughts aloud. “The devil take her!”
Garnache smiled grimly. “That is a bond of sympathy between us,” said he. “I have said those very words a hundred times—a thousand times, indeed—between Paris and Grenoble. Yet I scarcely see that you can damn her with as much justice as can I.
“But there, monsieur; all this is unprofitable. You have my message. I shall spend the day at Grenoble, and take a well-earned rest. By this time to-morrow I shall be ready to start upon my return journey. I shall have then the honour to wait upon you again, to the end that I may receive from you the charge of Mademoiselle de La Vauvraye. I shall count upon your having her here, in readiness to set out with me, by noon to-morrow.”
He bowed, with a flourish of his plumed hat, and would with that have taken his departure but that the Seneschal stayed him.
“Monsieur, monsieur,” he cried, in piteous affright, “you do not know the Dowager of Condillac.”
“Why, no. What of it?”
“What of it? Did you know her, you would understand that she is not the woman to be driven. I may order her in the Queen’s name to deliver up Mademoiselle de La Vauvraye. But she will withstand me.”
“Withstand you?” echoed Garnache, frowning into the face of this fat man, who had risen also, brought to his feet by excitement. “Withstand you—you, the Lord Seneschal of Dauphiny? You are amusing yourself at my expense.”
“But I tell you that she will,” the other insisted in a passion. “You may look for the girl in vain tomorrow unless you go to Condillac yourself and take her.”
Garnache drew himself up and delivered his answer in a tone that was final.
“You are the governor of the province, monsieur, and in this matter you have in addition the Queen’s particular authority—nay, her commands are imposed upon you. Those commands, as interpreted by me, you will execute in the manner I have indicated.”
The Seneschal shrugged his shoulders, and chewed a second at his beard.
“It is an easy thing for you to tell me what to do. Tell me, rather, how to do it, how to overcome her opposition.”
“You are very sure of opposition—strangely sure, monsieur,” said Garnache, looking him between the eyes. “In any case, you have soldiers.”
“And so has she, and the strongest castle in southern France—to say nothing of the most cursed obstinacy in the world. What she says, she does.”
“And what the Queen says her loyal servants do,” was Garnache’s rejoinder, in a withering tone. “I think there is nothing more to be said, monsieur,” he added. “By this time to-morrow I shall expect to receive from you, here, the charge of Mademoiselle de La Vauvraye. A demain, donc, Monsieur le Seneschal.”
And with another bow the man from Paris drew himself erect, turned on his heel, and went jingling and creaking from the room.
The Lord Seneschal sank back in his chair, and wondered to himself whether to die might not prove an easy way out of the horrid situation into which chance and his ill-starred tenderness for the Dowager of Condillac had thrust him.
At his desk sat his secretary, who had been a witness of the interview, lost in wonder almost as great as the Seneschal’s own.
For an hour Tressan remained where he was, deep in thought and gnawing at his beard. Then with a sudden burst of passion, expressed in a round oath or two, he rose, and called for his horse that he might ride to Condillac.
