The Czar A tale of the Time of the First Napoleon 17
“To us all. Do you know how they deal with the _refractory_, as they
call those who try to evade the conscription, and with their families?”
Madame de Talmont raised her thin hand with a peremptory gesture, “Not
another word, Henri. It concerns not thee or us to measure the danger;
the duty is all with which we have to do. I can bear to think of thee
pining on bread and water, with a bullet chained to thy foot, and thy
head shaved like a convict’s; I could _not_ bear to know thee in the
camp of the Corsican tyrant, fighting to fasten his iron yoke upon the
necks of free men. How could I look upon thy father’s face in heaven,
if I had reared and nourished his son for _this_?”
“But oh, mother, it is _you_ I think of--you and Clémence.”
“Whatever cross God lays upon us he will give us strength to sustain.
Go, my children, and pray to him. I must be alone while I write this
letter, for it will need to be very cautiously but very distinctly
worded. The posts are not safe.”
CHAPTER X.
THE DRAWING OF THE LOT.
“Our God upon the cross,
Our king upon the scaffold; let us think
Of these, and fold endurance to our hearts.”
Clémence went into her own room, and Henri followed her. The chamber
was severely simple, but scrupulously neat. The narrow bedstead might
have suited a nun, and the table and chairs were of unpainted deal:
but an ivory crucifix, exquisitely carved, hung over the bed; and the
white-washed wall was adorned with a little tier of book-shelves,
constructed by Henri, and containing a select and precious library--the
“Augustinos” of Jansenius, the works of Arnauld, Nicole, and other
divines of the school of Port-Royal, the sermons of Fénélon, and the
letters of Madame Guyon. Most precious of all was De Sacy’s translation
of the New Testament; and next to this inestimable treasure, the volume
best beloved and most carefully studied by Clémence was the Port-Royal
edition of the “Pensées de Pascal.” Many a line, marked by the hand
of the thoughtful young student, showed her sympathy with the soul of
the great teacher. Her heart, like his, had turned from all that earth
could give to seek a more enduring rest and a better portion. Had she
found it? At least she had found much that was unspeakably precious--a
God to be loved and served with all her mind, with all her soul, and
with all her strength. But she had been taught to dwell rather upon his
commandments than upon his gifts, and was still far from recognizing,
with St. Augustine, that he himself must give that which he commands.
She had seen the mystery of the cross, but dimly and afar off, reading
therein rather the exceeding sinfulness of the sin that had to be
atoned for, than the unutterable greatness of the love that atoned for
all. Consequently, her religion was one of surrender and renunciation,
not of joyous acceptance and activity; death to the flesh was her
watchword rather than life in the Spirit. The air she breathed was
bracing and invigorating, but it was cold and sunless. If it were the
will of God that Henri should become a hunted fugitive, that he should
be arrested as “refractory,” and should perish miserably in a fortress
dungeon, there was nothing for her to say but this, “It is the Lord;
let him do what seemeth him good.” And having said it, she would still
be an unprofitable servant. Her heart, it is true, would be broken; but
what mattered that to any one?
While such thoughts passed through the mind of Clémence, Henri stood
in silence, leaning against the little latticed window, and looking
out upon the peaceful country landscape. At last he spoke. “They are
gay enough in the village,” he said. “They do not seem to dread the
conscription half so much as they did last year. In fact, this new war
is very popular. Mathieu Féron, who was standing in his father’s forge
when I went by, said _he_ would be glad to be drawn; and Jacques Bonin,
and that other lad who is with him, were of the same mind, saying they
would like nothing better than to go and give the Russians a good
beating.”
“What miserable folly!” said Clémence with bitter sadness. “What have
the Russians done to us, that the blacksmith’s son and the butcher’s
boys of Brie should be eager to go and kill them?”
“I daresay you know as well as they do,” returned Henri.
“‘It is in his heart to pluck up and to destroy kingdoms not a few,’”
Clémence quoted. “But, Henri,” she added, with a sudden gleam of hope,
“may not good for us spring out of this madness of theirs? Might we
not, even if you draw a bad number, find a substitute? You know there
is nothing we would not part with to raise the money--_nothing_.”
Henri shook his head. “Last time,” he said, “the price went up to three
thousand francs, and beyond it. Indeed, it was difficult to get one at
any price. But that is not all,”--he lowered his voice: “Clémence, I
have reason to think M. le Maire means no good to me.”
She started. “Why do you say that?” she asked, with a quick fading of
the new-born hope.
“Quietly as we have lived here,” Henri resumed, “we are not quite
unknown. Every one is aware that I am the son of Henri Charles de
Talmont, who died for his King in La Vendée. I have no favour to hope.
On the contrary, I think M. le Maire would be glad to see me with a
musket on my shoulder.”
“If that be the case,” Clémence returned sadly, “at least we may thank
God that he cannot tamper with the numbers.”
“The numbers we are to draw? They matter less than you think. The lists
_must_ be filled up; and so many young men have been taken already that
few enough are left to choose from now. In any case, our little village
will have to contribute its full quota; and even should _I_ succeed in
escaping, some other luckless lad will have to go in my place.”
“It is not the misfortune of serving as a soldier that you want to
escape, but the dishonour, nay the sin, of serving a usurper.”
“But, Clémence”-- He paused.
“Well, brother?”
“It is no sin to fight for France,--for France, not for Napoleon.”
“There is no France,” Clémence returned proudly--“no France that we
can recognize apart from the King of France, Louis Dix-huit.”
“Of whom _I_ know no more than Féron or Bonin knows of the Emperor of
Russia.”
“What does that matter? What do you mean, Henri?”
“That we think Féron and Bonin a couple of fools because they are
longing to go and destroy the Emperor of Russia, about whom they know
nothing. Are _we_ so much wiser if we let ourselves be destroyed for a
king of France about whom we know just as little?”
“Not for _a_ king of France, but for _the_ King,” Clémence answered
gently. “And not alone for the King, but for truth, and loyalty, and
God.”
No more was said; for at that moment they heard the voice of Madame
de Talmont, who, having finished her letter, called her daughter to
read it. Henri stood yet beside the window; but it was not the quiet
wintry scene without which was passing before the boy’s anxious
eyes. He saw instead his mother’s peaceful home invaded by ruthless
soldiers; he heard the clank of their spurs, the tread of their feet
upon the stair, their oaths, their threats as they sought everywhere
for him, the fugitive. He saw--he heard much more--his dwelling given
over to pillage--_that_, perhaps, might be borne; but his mother,
his sister, exposed to all the wrongs and insults a lawless soldiery
could inflict, and _had_ inflicted in like cases! No; he could not
risk it. Not for all the kings of France that ever wore a crown!
Better serve Napoleon--better a thousand times! And, after all, what
was Napoleon--what were emperors and kings, to him and his? What was
death on the battle-field? He had always heard that such a death was
honourable and noble, and at all events a man could die but once. But
the deserter’s fate was only terrible; suffering without glory, “the
pang without the palm.” From those dreary fortress prisons where the
“refractory” toiled in the garb of convicts, fed on bread and water,
with shaven heads and fettered feet, no man ever came forth alive.
Days wore on, bringing the dreaded morning that was to decide the fate
of the conscripts. Madame de Talmont wrapped her mantle around her and
took the arm of her son. Clémence also was prepared to accompany them
to the village. Henri, who looked very pale, attempted a remonstrance.
“The place will be crowded to-day,” he said. “It is not fit for _you_,
mother, or for Clémence.”
But they would not listen. “There is no country lad,” said his mother,
“who will not have his people with him to-day to learn his fate; and
shall De Talmont go to the drawing alone, as if no one cared for him?”
As they passed along, they could not avoid hearing the mocking remarks
which were exchanged by the peasants of Brie when they saw the proud
aristocrats, whose lives had flowed on for years beside yet apart from
their own, forced at last into fellowship with their neighbours by a
common hope and fear. The silk of Madame de Talmont’s mantle, well-worn
yet unmistakably elegant, rubbed against the homespun gown of the
baker’s widow, and both faces were pale with one anxiety.
“Ah, madame, there’s little chance for us this time,” said Widow Simon.
“_They_ like it, the young folk. _They_ know no better. But God help
the old!”
A crowd of women were standing together in the town hall, while the
young men went inside into the mayor’s office to draw each his number
from the box. Without, in the village street, a band was playing
martial airs, and people were shouting, “Vive l’Empereur!”
Every minute or two some one came out of the office, swaggering or
downcast, as the case might be. Widow Simon’s son had drawn a very high
number, which made him comparatively safe; and Madame de Talmont felt
glad ever afterwards that she congratulated the mother. Mathieu Féron
came out waving his cap triumphantly, and shouting, “Vive l’Empereur!
I am going to fight the Russians! Hammer and tongs, good-bye!”
Then Henri came. He was calm, but a
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