CHAPTER V.

IN WHICH HISTORY IS MINGLED WITH ROMANCE.

The real awaking of the country, the real beginning of the Revolution dates from the year 1789. What France had endured for half a century every one knows. Every one also knows that, becoming weary of poverty, of the tyranny of the powerful, of the weakness of the king, of the squandering of her treasure and of the intrigues of those in authority, and compelled to find a remedy within herself, the country demanded the convocation of the Etats Generaux. The government at last decided to accede to the entreaties that were heard on every side; and it was during the early part of the year 1789 that France was called upon to elect her representatives; while, from one end of the kingdom to the other, there was a general desire for a great and much needed reform.

The south did not take a less active part in this movement than the rest of the country. Provence and Languedoc were shaken to their centres. In all the region round about the Gardon—at Nimes, in Beaucaire in Arles, in Remoulins—political clubs were formed. The condition of the peasantry, who had previously been condemned to a sort of slavery, suddenly changed. The weak became the strong; the timid became the audacious; the humble became the proud; and from the mouth of an oppressed people issued a voice demanding liberty. This movement had been ripe for some time among the lower classes, but it suddenly burst forth and revealed itself in all its mighty power in the convocation of the Etats Generaux.

In Nimes and the surrounding country, the agitation caused by this great event was increased by the remembrance of the religious warfare that had been waged there between the Protestants and Catholics for more than a century. This enmity blazed out afresh, greatly aggravating the bitterness naturally caused by the elections. Were not these last a mere pretext invented by one sect to conceal their evil designs against the other? Was it only a conflict between the champions of the old and of the new regime, or were these excited men eager to take up arms one against the other, mere fanatics ready to condemn others to martyrdom and to accept it themselves? History has not yet decided this important question; and sectarian passion has not yet allowed an impartial critic to be heard. Still, it is a well-known fact that throughout the province of Languedoc, and notably in Nimes, the political excitement was of the most virulent character. Blood flowed there even sooner than in Paris. The massacres at Nimes preceded the celebrated massacres of September by more than two years; and in Avignon, though this city was as yet French only in its situation and in the language of its inhabitants, the reign of terror was at its height in the mouth of October, 1791.

In 1789, while the elections were in progress, signs of these coming events began to manifest themselves. In Nimes the Catholics and Protestants were bitterly denouncing one another, quarrelling over the local offices, and striving in every possible way to gain the ascendancy. The Marquis de Chamondrin was a Catholic, but he was very tolerant and liberal in his opinions. One of his ancestors, at the imminent risk of exile, had boldly opposed the revocation of the Edict of Nantes. The Marquis shared the opinions of his ancestor; despotism found no champion in him. He had read the philosophers of his time, and he was convinced that equality in rights if not in fortunes could be established between men. He recognized the necessity of reform, but he detested violence; and he exerted all his influence to secure moderation, to reconcile opponents and to draw men together. Thus at Nimes, on more than one occasion, he had prevented the effusion of blood. But the passions were so strongly excited in that locality at that time that his efforts as a moderator gained him but one thing, isolation. He drew down upon himself the hatred of those whom he wished to calm; he did not even win the friendship of those whom he desired to protect, and who, unless their peril was extreme, boldly declared that they were able to protect themselves. His popularity, cleverly undermined by his enemies, soon became impaired, and, weary of the dissensions in which he was embroiled in spite of all his efforts, he shut himself up in his chateau, resolving to keep a philosophical watch over events, but to take no part in them.

A few days later, the Etats Generaux assembled at Versailles; but their time was spent in bickerings and in sterile discussions while oppressed and panting France vainly awaited the salutary reforms they were expected to effect. From May, the date of their meeting, to the immortal night of the Fourth of August, when the nation entered upon an era that was to atone for so many disasters, one event succeeded another with bewildering rapidity. The victorious resistance of the Third Estate to the pretensions of the nobility and clergy; the proclamation of the king; the movement of the French Guards; their imprisonment; their deliverance by the people; the intrigues of the Orleans party; the taking of the Bastile; the death of Foulon and of Berthier came one after another to accelerate the progress of the revolutionary movement which was already advancing rapidly.

In 1790, famine was at the gates of Paris and threatened to spread over all France. Armed brigands, taking advantage of the general disorder, began to lay waste the provinces. In many parts of the country, the peasants joined them; in others, they resisted them. These brigands attacked the chateaux, they burned several and pillaged others. Finally, dread of a foreign foe was added to all these fears, and the people accused the nobility of calling a foreign nation to their assistance.

These are some of the many events that served to distract Philip de Chamondrin's mind from his disappointment and delay his marriage to Antoinette de Mirandol. Anxious as the Marquis was to hasten this union, he shared the general apprehension too strongly to urge his son to marry at such a time. The inmates of the chateau were troubled and depressed. Gloomy news from the outer world reached them daily. The king's life was believed to be in danger. A dozen times Philip had almost decided to start for Versailles to die, if need be, in the service of his sovereign; but Coursegol succeeded in convincing him that his presence was a necessity at Chamondrin, and that he could not go away without leaving the Marquis and Antoinette exposed to the gravest peril. Coursegol had several reasons for dissuading his young master from his purpose, the chief of which was that he did not wish to go himself. In case of actual danger, he could be of great service to the Marquis. Thanks to his plebeian origin, to his many acquaintances and to his reputation as a good fellow in Nimes and in Beaucaire, he could mingle with the crowd, converse with the peasantry, question the artisans and discover their temper and plans. In case the chateau was attacked, he would also be able to make many friends for the Marquis and call quite a number of defenders to his aid. Then, too, he could not endure the thought of going so far from Arles while Dolores was there, alone and defenceless, and might need his protection at any moment.

So Philip did not go, but together with his father and Coursegol he began to make arrangements for the defence of the chateau. They augmented their force by the addition of three or four men upon whose fidelity they could implicitly rely. Coursegol was also promised the services of several peasants. The Marquis frequently visited the little town of Remoulins, that lay a few miles from the chateau on the other side of the Gardon, and he still had a few warm friends there, some of whom had desired to send him to the Etats Generaux. They, too, promised to come to his assistance in case of an attack on the castle. If the former masters of Chamondrin had been tyrants this was now forgotten. The large possessions which would have endowed them with feudal rights were theirs no longer. For several years Dolores and the Marquise de Chamondrin had endeavored to obliterate the memory of the past by visiting the poor and the sick around them, and Antoinette de Mirandol had perpetuated the memory of their good deeds by imitating their example.

Hence they had nothing to apprehend from those in their immediate neighborhood; but they had every reason to fear the many lawless bands that were now scouring that region of country, ostensibly attracted there by the fair that was to be held at Beaucaire in the month of July—bands of armed and desperate men, who plundered and pillaged and lived by rapine. The Bohemians, too, who passed the Pont du Gard each spring and autumn, inspired the inmates of the chateau with no slight dread, as it seemed more than likely they would take advantage of the general disorder that prevailed to commit depredations upon any isolated dwellings that tempted their cupidity. Moreover, north of Nimes there were several villages whose fanatical and intensely excited inhabitants were strongly urged by their leaders to make an attack upon the Catholics, who were accused of opposition to the reform movement. It was rumored that these people intended to march upon Nimes, burn the city and put its population to the sword. Was there not good reason to fear that these men, if they succeeded in this undertaking, would take it into their heads to spread death and destruction beyond the walls of Nimes. No apprehension was ridiculous, no prudence was exaggerated at a time when all France trembled.

Such were the causes that had induced the Marquis and his son to prepare for an attack on the castle. In spite of their precautions, they could not conceal these preparations from Antoinette. She courageously assisted them, almost thankful for the perils that menaced their safety, since they detained Philip at the chateau. She loved him even more devotedly than ever, and, if she shuddered sometimes at the thought that a life so precious to her might be endangered at any moment, she comforted herself by thinking she would at least have the consolation of dying with him.

But the Marquis was beset by many scruples. He felt that he did wrong to expose Antoinette to such danger, since she did not yet belong to his family and since he had promised her dying father to protect her and her fortune until the day of her marriage. He finally decided to send her to England, which she would find a safer retreat than the Chateau de Chamondrin. He confided this project to Antoinette, but he had scarcely broached the subject when, the girl interrupted him with these words:

"If you love me, do not separate me from Philip!"

The Marquis could not resist this entreaty. Antoinette remained.

While these events were taking place at the chateau, Dolores, immured in the convent at Arles, was patiently awaiting the termination of the imprisonment she had voluntarily imposed upon herself. After a sojourn of several months in this saintly house, she experienced a great relief. Solitude had calmed her sorrow. She still suffered, she would always suffer, but she gathered from her faith and from noble resolutions bravely accomplished that peace and resignation which a merciful Heaven bestows upon all sad hearts that appeal to it of aid.

Dolores, as we have said before, entered the convent not as a novice, but as a boarder. From the founding of the institution, that is to say, from the beginning of the seventeenth century, the Carmelite nuns of Arles, in obedience to the wishes of their foundress, to whose liberality they owed the building and grounds which they occupied, had offered an asylum to all gentlewomen who, from one cause or another, desired to dwell in the shelter of those sacred walls without obeying the rules of the order. Disconsolate widows, mothers mourning the loss of their children, and orphans affrighted by the world found a peaceful home there and a quiet life which was not unfrequently a step towards the cloister.

When Dolores went to live at the convent, the boarders were seven in number, all older than herself. They accorded a cordial welcome to the young girl, who was soon at ease in their midst. Their life was very simple. They lived in the convent, but not within the cloister. Rising at six in the morning, they attended service in the chapel with the nuns from whom they were separated by a grating. Between the hours of morning and evening service they were at liberty to spend their time in whatever way they chose. They all ate at the same table. Dolores spent her time in working for the needy and for the institution. She made clothing for poor children; she embroidered altar cloths for the chapel; she visited the sick and destitute. Thus her life was peacefully devoted to prayer and good works. She frequently received tidings from the chateau, sometimes through letters written by the Marquis, sometimes through Coursegol, who came to see her every month. She took a lively interest in all that pertained to those whom she had left only to give them a new proof of her affection and devotion. When Coursegol visited her, she invariably spoke of her longing to return to Chamondrin. She hoped that Philip and Antoinette would soon be married, and that she would be able to go back to the loved home in which her happy childhood had been spent. These hopes were never to be realized; that beloved home she was destined never to behold again.

Early in June, Coursegol, in accordance with his usual habit, left the chateau to pass a few days in Arles. He reached the city on the fourteenth, and, after visiting Dolores, left for home on the morning of the sixteenth.

He made the journey on foot. The sky was slightly veiled by fleecy, white clouds that tempered the heat of the sun. The road between Arles and Nimes is charming, and Coursegol walked blithely along, inhaling with delight the fresh morning breeze that came to him laden with the vivifying fragrance of the olive and cypress. As he approached Beaucaire, a pretty village on the bank of the Rhone, he noticed that an unusual animation pervaded the place. Groups of peasants stood here and there, engaged in excited conversation; every face wore an expression of anxiety. He thought at first that these people must be going or returning from some funeral; but he soon noticed that many were armed, some with guns, some with scythes. On reaching the centre of the town, he found the market-place full of soldiers; officers were giving excited orders. It looked as if the town were arming to defend itself.

"What does all this mean?" inquired Coursegol, addressing a little group of townspeople.

"Why, do you not know what has happened?" one man replied, in evident astonishment.

"I have heard nothing. I have just arrived from Arles."

"Nimes has been pillaged. The peasantry from the Cevennes have descended upon the city and massacred three hundred people—laborers, bourgeois, priests and nuns. They are now masters of the place, and it is feared that a detachment of them is coming in this direction. We are making ready to receive them."

"What! Have they advanced beyond Nimes?" inquired Coursegol, appalled by this news.

"Some of them advanced last night as far as the Pont du Gard. There they sacked and burned the Chateau de Chamondrin!"

A ghastly pallor overspread Coursegol's features; he uttered a cry of horror.

"What is the matter?" asked the man who had just apprised him of this terrible calamity.

"My masters!—where are my masters?" cried poor Coursegol.

Then, without waiting for the response which no one could give, he darted off like a madman in the direction of the Pont du Gard.

Although the events that took place in Nimes early in 1790 have never been clearly explained by an impartial historian, we have reason to suppose that the public sentiment prevailing there at the time was unfavorable to the Revolution. The Catholics of the south became indignant when they learned that the Assembly wished to reform the Catholic Church without consulting the Pope. From that day, they were the enemies of the Revolution. Their protests were energetic, and from protests they passed to acts. The Catholics took up arms ostensibly to defend themselves against the Protestants, but chiefly to defend their menaced religion. The Protestants, who were in communication with their religious brethren in Paris and Montauban, were also ready to take the field at any moment. A regiment was quartered in the city. The sympathies of the officers were with the Catholics, who represented the aristocracy in their eyes; the soldiers seemed to favor the Protestants—the patriots. This division brought a new element of discord into the civil war. This condition of affairs lasted several months. A conflict between some of the National Guards—Catholics—and a company of dragoons was the signal for a struggle that had become inevitable. The Protestants of Nimes sided with the dragoons; the Catholics espoused the cause of the National Guards. Several of these last were killed. This happened on the 13th of June. The following day, bands of peasants, summoned to the aid of the Protestants from the country north of Nimes, descended upon the city. They entered it in an orderly manner, as if animated by peaceful intentions; but many of the men were either half-crazed fanatics or wretches who were actuated by a desire for plunder. They ran through the streets, becoming more and more excited until their fury suddenly burst forth and they rushed wildly about the city, carrying death and devastation in their track. There was a Capuchin monastery at Nimes. They invaded this first, slaying the priests at the foot of the altar in the church that still retains the ineffaceable stain of their blood. The assassins then hastened to the monastery of the Carmelites. The monks had fled. They sacked the church, and then plundered a number of private houses. The bandits showed no mercy. They opened a vigorous cannonade upon the tower of Froment where many had taken refuge. In three days three hundred persons perished.

At the news of these massacres a cry of rage and terror rose from the Catholic villages on the banks of the Rhone and the Gardon. The cry was this:

"They are slaughtering our brothers at Nimes!"

The influential men immediately assembled and counselled the frightened and indignant populace to take up arms in their own defence. The tocsin was sounded, and in a few hours several hundred men had assembled near the Pont du Gard, ready to march upon Nimes and punish the wretches who had slain the innocent and defenceless. By unanimous consent the Marquis de Chamondrin was made one of the leaders of this hastily improvised army. He accepted the command with a few eloquent words, urging his men to do their duty, and the army took up its line of march. Some gypsies, who chanced to be near the Pont du Gard at the time, brought up the rear, hoping that the fortunes of war would gain them an entrance into the city of Nimes that they might pillage and steal without restraint.

This manifestation of wrath on the part of the inhabitants of the surrounding country terrified the assassins, and most of them took to flight; but those who lived in Nimes and who were alarmed for their own safety and that of their families resolved to avert the blow that menaced them.

There are traitors in every party, men ready to sell or to be sold; men for whom treason and infamy are pathways to wealth. There were some of these men in the Catholic ranks, and promises of gold induced them to go out and meet the approaching army and assure its leaders that order was re-established at Nimes and that their entrance into the city would only occasion a fresh outbreak. These emissaries accomplished their mission; and that same evening all these men who had left home that morning thirsting for vengeance returned quietly to their firesides.

But, unfortunately, the Marquis de Chamondrin had taken such an active part in this demonstration that he had deeply incensed the assassins; and the more ferocious of them resolved to wreak vengeance upon him by pillaging and burning his chateau. A conspiracy was organized, and the following night about forty men of both parties, or rather the scum and refuse of both, started for Chamondrin. They knew the castle had but a small number of defenders, and that Coursegol, the most formidable of these, was absent at the time. They also knew that the isolated situation of the chateau afforded its inmates little chance of succor, and that, if they could succeed in surprising it, they could accomplish their work of destruction before the inhabitants of Remoulins and the surrounding villages could come to the aid of the Marquis and his household. The plan was decided upon in a few hours; and the disorder that prevailed throughout the country, the inertness of the authorities and the want of harmony among the soldiery, all favored its execution.

About nine o'clock in the evening, the bandits stole quietly out of Nimes. They reached the Pont du Gard a little before midnight and halted there to receive their final instructions before ascending the hill upon the summit of which stood the Chateau de Chamondrin.

Here, they were joined by a dozen or more Bohemians who were encamped near by, the same men who had accompanied the Catholics on their expedition that same morning. They approached the bandits in the hope that a new army was in process of organization for an attack upon the city, and that they might accompany it. When they saw the band proceed in the direction of the chateau, they straggled along in the rear. Like hungry vultures, they seemed to scent a battle from which they might derive some profit.

The household at Chamondrin chanced to be astir late that evening. The Marquis, Philip, Antoinette, the cure of Remoulins and two or three landed proprietors living in the vicinity were in the drawing-room. After such a day of excitement, no one could think of sleep. They were discussing the events that had occurred at Nimes, and deploring the death of the victims. They were anxiously asking if the blood that had been shed would be the last, and were endeavoring to find means to prevent the repetition of such a calamity. When the clock struck the hour of midnight, the cure of Remoulins, an energetic old man named Peretty, rose to return to the village. The other visitors, whose homes lay in the same direction and whose carriages were waiting in the court-yard, followed his example. Suddenly a frightened cry broke the silence of the night. Followed by the others present, Philip rushed to the door. The cry had come from the man who guarded the gate.

"We are attacked!" exclaimed this man on seeing Philip.

At a glance the latter understood the extent and the imminence of their danger. The bright moonlight revealed a terrible sight. The besiegers had found only one opening through which they could effect an entrance into the chateau; but even there a heavy gate composed of strong iron bars opposed their passage. This gate was very high, and the bars were securely fastened to each other, while the top was surmounted by sharp pickets. Still, the bandits were not discouraged. Half-crazed with fury and with wine, they climbed this formidable barrier with the hope of leaping over it. It seemed to bend beneath their weight. The massive bolts trembled, the ponderous hinges creaked, as fifty or more repulsive-looking wretches, the majority of them clad in rags, hurled themselves against the gate, uttering shrieks of baffled rage. One would have supposed them wild beasts trying to break from their cage.

"To arms!" cried Philip.

He ran to the lower hall, which was used as an armory. His father, the visitors and the servants, who were all devoted to the Chamondrin family, followed him, while Antoinette stood watching in alarm this formidable horde of invaders.

The Abbe Peretty advanced towards the intruders.

"What do you desire, my friends?" he asked, calmly.

"Open the gates!" responded the less excited among the crowd.

"We want Chamondrin's head!" exclaimed others.

"Have you any just cause of complaint against the Marquis?" persisted the abbe, striving to calm the furious throng.

"Death to the aristocrats!" the crowd responded with one voice.

One man went so far as to point his gun at the venerable priest, who, without once losing his sang-froid, recrossed the court-yard, keeping his face turned towards the excited band outside, and rejoined his companions, who under the leadership of the Marquis and Philip were just emerging from the hall, armed to the teeth.

"They will not listen to reason," said the Abbe Peretty, calmly!

"Then we will defend ourselves, and woe be unto them!"

As he uttered these words, the Marquis turned to Mademoiselle de Mirandol, around whom the women of the chateau were crowding, half-crazed with terror.

"Go into the house; your place is not here," said he.

"My place is by your side!" replied Antoinette.

"No, my dear Antoinette; it is madness to expose yourself unnecessarily. I know you are courageous, but you can be of far greater service to us by quieting these poor, shrieking creatures."

While this conversation was going on, Philip advanced to the gate. It still resisted the efforts of the assailants, some of whom were endeavoring to climb over the roofs of the pavilions that stood on either side of the entrance to the chateau.

"I command you to retire!" cried Philip.

Angry threats of "Death" resounded afresh.

"Then I hold you responsible for any disasters that may occur!" Philip replied.

At the same moment the impetuous youth raised his gun and fired, wounding one of the men who had climbed the gate and was preparing to leap down into the court-yard. Imprecations broke forth anew and the combat began. Nothing could be heard but a vigorous fusillade, accompanied by the shouts of the besiegers and the besieged. These last were so few in number that they dare not dispatch one of their little company to Remoulins for aid. Besides, they were not sure that the band now assailing them would not be followed by others that would waylay their messenger; but they hoped that their shouts and the sound of the firing would arouse the inhabitants of the sleeping town. The Marquis fought with the desperation of a man who is defending his outraged fireside, and Philip struggled with the energy of despair. He was fighting for his father and for Antoinette. He shuddered when he thought of the horrible fate that awaited the young girl if these brutes, more formidable than any wild beasts, were victorious. Even the Abbe Peretty had armed himself. The servants and the friends of the house conducted themselves like heroes, but, unfortunately, Coursegol was far from Chamondrin, and the defenders of the chateau sadly missed his valiant arm.

The assailants were still crowding against the gate, uttering howls of fury. They were poorly armed. Only a few had guns, the others brandished hatchets and pickaxes, crying:

"Tear down the gate!"

But, when the firing began, they left this dangerous position and retired perhaps twenty feet, where they hid behind the trees, firing at random, sometimes trying to advance, but always driven back with loss. Five or six of them were already stretched upon the grass, but the defenders of the castle were unhurt. The gypsies had retreated to a safe distance, where they stood impatiently awaiting the conclusion of the struggle, ready to fall upon the vanquished as soon as they became unable to defend themselves.

Meanwhile Antoinette, surrounded by four or five women, was upon her knees in the drawing-room, praying fervently, her heart sick with anguish and fear. How ardently she wished herself a man that she might fight by Philip's side! The firing suddenly ceased. Philip entered the room. His face was pale, but stained here and there by smoke and powder; his head was bare; his clothing disordered. Grief and despair were imprinted upon his countenance.

"We must fly!" he exclaimed.

And taking Antoinette by the hand he led her through the long corridor opening into the park. The frightened women followed them. In the park they met the defenders of the chateau, carrying a wounded man in their arms.

Antoinette uttered a cry of consternation.

"Ah! I would have fought until death!" exclaimed Philip, despairingly, "but we were overpowered; the gate was torn down; my father was wounded. He must be saved from the hands of the bandits at any cost, so we were forced to retreat."

Antoinette walked on like one in a frightful dream. If Philip had not supported her she would have fallen again and again. They walked beside the Marquis, who was still conscious, though mortally wounded in the breast. When he saw his son and Antoinette beside him, he looked at them with sorrowful tenderness, and even attempted to smile as if to convince them that he was not suffering.

The little band proceeded with all possible speed to a small summer-house concealed in the pines and shrubbery. Nothing could be more mournful than this little procession of gloomy-visaged men and weeping women, fleeing through the darkness to escape the assassins who were now masters of the castle, destroying everything around them and making night hideous with their ferocious yells. At last they reached the summer-house. The Marquis was deposited upon a hastily improvised bed; the Abbe Peretty, assisted by Philip and Antoinette, attempted to dress his wound; and two men started in the hope of reaching Remoulins by a circuitous route, in order to bring a physician and call upon the inhabitants of the village for aid.

An hour went by; it seemed a century. In the gloomy room where these unfortunates had taken refuge no sound broke the stillness save the moans of the Marquis and the voice of the Abbe Peretty, as he uttered occasional words of consolation and encouragement to assuage the mute anguish of Philip and the despair of the weeping Antoinette. Then all was still again.

Philip's agony was terrible. His father dying; his home in the hands of vandals, who were ruthlessly destroying the loved and cherished objects that had surrounded him from infancy, Antoinette, crushed by the disasters of this most wretched night, this was the terrible picture that rose before him. To this torture was added the despair caused by a sense of his utter powerlessness. Gladly would he have rushed back to the chateau to die there, struggling with his enemies, but he was prevented by the thought of Antoinette, who was now dependent upon him for protection. He was engrossed in these gloomy thoughts when a strange crackling sound attracted his attention, and at the same moment a man, who had ventured out into the park to watch the proceedings of the enemy rushed back, exclaiming:

"They are burning the chateau!"

The tidings of this new misfortune overpowered Philip and almost bereft him of reason. He ran to the door. A tall column of flame and smoke was mounting to the sky; the trees were tinged with a crimson light, and the crackling of the fire could be distinctly heard above the hooting and yelling of the infuriated crowd. His eyes filled with tears, but he was dashing them away preparatory to returning to his father when the Abbe Peretty joined him.

"Courage, my poor boy!" said the good priest.

"I will be brave, sir. I can cheerfully submit to the loss of our possessions, but to the death of my father, I—"

He could not complete the sentence. The abbe, who had lost all hope, was silent for a moment; then he said:

"There is something I must no longer conceal from you. After the chateau is destroyed, I fear these wretches will search the park in order to discover our retreat. I do not fear for myself. I shall remain with the Marquis. They will respect a dying man and a white-haired priest; but you, Philip, must remain here no longer. Make your escape with Mademoiselle de Mirandol without delay."

"I cannot abandon my father," replied Philip. "If our hiding-place is discovered, we will defend ourselves—we will fight until death!"

The priest said no more, and they both returned to the bedside of the Marquis. On seeing them, the latter, addressing his son, inquired:

"The chateau is on fire, is it not?"

Philip's reply seemed to cause the Marquis intense anguish; but, after a moment, he motioned to his son to come nearer; then he said.

"Listen, Philip. You must leave France. This unhappy country is about to enter upon a series of misfortunes which neither you nor I can foresee, and of which you will certainly be a victim if you remain here. You must depart, Philip. Think, my son, you will be the sole heir of the house of Chamondrin."

"You will recover, father."

"No; death is close at hand. It is so near that I cannot deceive myself; so, Philip, I wish you to grant one of my dearest wishes. I wish, before I die, to feel assured that the family of Chamondrin will be perpetuated. Consent to marry Antoinette."

Philip, as we have said before, had already tacitly consented to this marriage. Since he had lost all hope of winning Dolores, the thought of wedding another was no longer revolting to him.

"I am ready to obey you, father," he replied, "but will you allow me to remind you that Mademoiselle de Mirandol is rich and that I have nothing."

The Marquis checked him and, calling Antoinette, said in a voice that was becoming weaker and weaker:

"Antoinette, Philip is poor; his position is gone; the favor of the king will avail him nothing in the future, and the power has passed into the hands of our enemies; nevertheless, will you consent to marry him?"

"If he desires it," exclaimed Mademoiselle de Mirandol, "and never was I so grateful for my wealth!"

Philip pressed the hand of the noble girl, and the face of the Marquis was transfigured with joy in spite of his agony. Then M. de Chamondrin resumed:

"You must leave the country, my children, and marry as soon as circumstances will permit. You must stay in foreign lands until France recovers her reason. Promise to obey me."

They promised in voices choked with sobs.

"Abbe," continued the Marquis, "bless these children!"

Without exchanging another word, Philip and Antoinette, in obedience to the wishes of the dying man, knelt before the priest. The latter, employing the solemn formula which makes bride and bridegroom indissolubly one, asked Mademoiselle de Mirandol if she would accept Philip as her husband, and Philip if he would take Antoinette for his wife, and when they had answered in the affirmative, he added:

"I cannot here, and under such circumstances, unite you by the bonds of marriage; but until the vows you have just exchanged can be consecrated by the church, I, as the witness of this covenant, shall pray God to bless you."

"I am satisfied," said the Marquis, faintly. "Father, grant me absolution."

Antoinette and Philip remained upon their knees. A quarter of an hour later the Marquis expired. Just as he breathed his last, the same man who discovered the firing of the chateau, and who had again returned to the park to watch the movements of the enemy, burst into the room.

"They are searching the park! They are coming this way!" he cried, breathlessly.

The cure, who had been engaged in prayer, rose.

"Fly!" he exclaimed.

"My place is here!" replied Philip.

Antoinette gave him a look of approval.

"In the name of the Father, who has commanded you to love, I order you to fly!"

And, as he spoke, the priest pointed to the door.

"But who will give him burial?" exclaimed Philip.

"I will; go!" replied the abbe.

Antoinette and Philip were compelled to obey.

The priest was left alone with the lifeless body of M. de Chamondrin. He knelt, and, as calmly as if he were in his own presbytery, recited the prayers the church addresses to Heaven for the souls of the dead. The flickering light of a nearly consumed candle dimly illumined the room. The world without was bathed in a flood of clear moonlight. The marauders ran about the park, shouting at the top of their voices, uprooting plants and shrubbery, breaking the statuary and the marble vases, and expending upon inanimate objects the fury they were unable to vent upon the living.

Suddenly, one of them discovered the summer-house. The door was open; he entered. Some of his comrades followed him. A priest with white, flowing locks rose at their entrance, and, pointing to the couch upon which the dead body of the Marquis was reposing, said:

"Death has passed this way! Retire—"

He was not allowed to complete his sentence. A violent blow from an axe felled him to the ground, his skull, fractured. They trampled his body under foot, then one of the assassins applied a burning torch to the floor. The flames rose, licking each portion of the building with their fiery tongues. Then the shameless crowd departed to continue their work of destruction. The sacking of the chateau occupied three hours. The pillagers had not retired when the approach of the National Guard of Remoulins, coming too late to the assistance of the Marquis, was discovered by one of the ruffians, and they fled in every direction to escape the punishment they merited.

When Coursegol, wild with anxiety, reached the chateau on the day that followed this frightful scene, only the walls remained standing. Of the imposing edifice in which he was born there was left only bare and crumbling walls. The farm-house and the summer-house had shared the same fate; and in the park, thickly strewn with prostrate trees and debris, a crowd of gypsies and beggars were searching for valuables spared by the fire. Coursegol could not repress a cry of rage and despair at the sight; but how greatly his sorrow was augmented when he learned that two dead bodies, those of the Marquis and of the Abbe Peretty had been discovered half-consumed in the still smoking ruins.

Were Philip and Antoinette also dead? No one knew.

One person declared that he saw them making their escape. This uncertainty was more horrible to Coursegol than the poignant reality before his eyes. He flung himself down upon the seared turf, and there, gloomy, motionless, a prey to the most frightful despair, he wept bitterly.