CHAPTER XLVIII
IN WHICH MORGAN'S PRESENTIMENTS ARE VERIFIED
It often happens that the skies are never so calm or so serene
as before a storm. The day was beautiful and still; one of those
glorious days of February when, in spite of the tingling cold
of the atmosphere, in spite of a winding-sheet of snow covering
the earth, the sun smiles down upon mankind with a promise of
spring.
Sir John came at noon to make his farewell visit to Amélie. He
had, or thought he had, her promise, and that satisfied him.
His impatience was altogether personal; but Amélie, in accepting
his suit, even though she relegated the period of her marriage to
the vaguest possible future, had crowned his hopes. He trusted
to the First Consul and to Roland's friendship for the rest. He
therefore returned to Paris to do much of his courting with
Madame de Montrevel, not being able to remain at Bourg and carry
it on with Amélie.
A quarter of an hour after he had left the Château des
Noires-Fontaines, Charlotte was also on her way to Bourg. At
four o'clock she returned, bringing word that she had seen Sir
John with her own eyes getting into his travelling carriage,
and that he had taken the road to Mâcon.
Amélie could therefore feel perfectly at ease on that score. She
breathed freer. She had tried to inspire Morgan with a peace of
mind which she herself did not share. Since the day that Charlotte
had brought back the news of Roland's presence at Bourg, she
had had a presentiment, like that of Morgan himself, that they
were approaching some terrible crisis. She knew all that had
happened at the Chartreuse of Seillon. She foresaw the struggle
between her brother and her lover, and, with her mind at rest
about her brother, thanks to Morgan's protection, she, knowing
Roland's character, trembled for her lover's life.
Moreover, she had heard of the stoppage of the Chambéry mail-coach
and the death of the colonel of Chasseurs. She also knew that her
brother had escaped, but that he had disappeared since that time.
She had received no letter from him herself. This disappearance
and silence, to her who knew her brother so well, was even worse
than open and declared war.
As for Morgan, she had not seen him since the scene we have narrated,
when she promised to send him arms wherever he might be, in case he
were condemned to death. Amélie therefore awaited this interview,
for which Morgan had asked, with as much impatience as he who had
asked it. As soon as she thought Michel and his son were in bed,
she lighted the four windows with the candles which were to summon
Morgan to her.
Then, following her lover's injunctions, she wrapped herself
in a cashmere shawl, which Roland had brought her from the
battlefield of the Pyramids, and which he had unwound from the
head of a chieftain whom he had killed. Over this she flung a
fur mantle, left Charlotte behind to keep her informed in case
of eventualities, which she trusted would not be forthcoming,
opened the park gate, and hastened toward the river.
During the day she had gone to the Reissouse and back several
times to trace a line of footsteps, among which the nocturnal
ones would not be noticed. She now descended, if not tranquilly
at least boldly, the slope leading to the river. Once there, she
looked about her for the boat beneath the willows. A man was
waiting in it--Morgan. With two strokes of the oar he reached
a spot where Amélie could come to him. The young girl sprang
down and he caught her in his arms.
The first thing the young girl noticed was the joyous radiance
which illuminated, if we may say so, the face of her lover.
"Oh!" she cried, "you have something nice to tell me." "What
makes you think so, dearest?" asked Morgan with his tenderest
smile.
"There is something in your face, my darling Charles, something
more than the mere happiness of seeing me."
"You are right," said Morgan, throwing the boat-chain around a
willow and letting the oars float idly beside the boat. Then,
taking Amélie in his arms, he said, "You were right, my Amélie.
Oh! blind weak beings! It is at the very moment that happiness
knocks at our door that we despair and doubt."
"Oh, speak, speak!" said Amélie, "tell me what has happened."
"Do you remember, my Amélie, how you answered me the last time
we met, when I asked you to fly and spoke to you of your probable
repugnance to the step?"
"Yes, I remember, Charles. I said that I was yours, and that,
though I felt that repugnance, I would conquer it for your sake."
"And I replied that I had engagements which would prevent my
leaving the country; that I was bound to others, and they to
me; that our duty was to one man to whom we owed absolute
obedience--the future King of France, Louis XVIII."
"Yes, you told me that."
"Well, we are now released from our pledges, Amélie, not only
by the King, but by our general, Georges Cadoudal."
"Oh! my friend, then you will be as other men, only above all
others."
"I shall become a simple exile, Amélie. There is no hope of our
being included in the Breton or Vendéan amnesty."
"Why not?"
"We are not soldiers, my darling child. We are not even rebels.
We are Companions of Jehu."
Amélie sighed.
"We are bandits, brigands, highwaymen," said Morgan, dwelling
on the words with evident intention.
"Hush!" said Amélie, laying her hand on her lover's lips. "Hush!
don't let us speak of that. Tell me how it is that your king
has released you, and your general also."
"The First Consul wished to see Cadoudal. In the first place,
he sent your brother to him with certain proposals. Cadoudal
refused to come to terms; but, like ourselves, he received orders
from Louis XVIII. to cease hostilities. Coincident with that
order came another message from the First Consul to Cadoudal.
It was a safeguard for the Vendéan general, and an invitation
to come to Paris; an overture from one power to another power.
Cadoudal accepted, and is now on his way to Paris. If it is not
peace, it is at least a truce."
"Oh, what joy, my Charles!"
"Don't rejoice too much, my love."
"Why not?"
"Do you know why they have issued this order to suspend hostilities?"
"No."
"Because M. Fouché is a long-headed man. He realized that, since
he could not defeat us, he must dishonor us. He has organized
false companies of Jehu, which he has set loose in Maine and
Anjou, who don't stop at the government money, but pillage and
rob travellers, and invade the châteaux and farms by night, and
roast the feet of the owners to make them tell where their treasure
is hidden. Well, these men, these bandits, these _roasters_,
have taken our name, and claim to be fighting for the same
principles, so that M. Fouché and his police declare that we are
not only beyond the pale of the law, but beyond that of honor."
"Oh!"
"That is what I wished to tell you before I ask you to fly with
me, my Amélie. In the eyes of France, in the eyes of foreigners,
even in the eyes of the prince we have served, and for whom we
have risked the scaffold, we shall be hereafter, and probably
are now, dishonored men worthy of the scaffold."
"Yes; but to me you are my Charles, the man of devoted convictions,
the firm royalist, continuing to struggle for a cause when other men
have abandoned it. To me you are the loyal Baron de Sainte-Hermine,
or, if you like it better, you are to me the noble, courageous,
invincible Morgan."
"Ah! that is what I longed to hear, my darling. If you feel thus,
you will not hesitate, in spite of the cloud of infamy that hangs
over our honor, you will not hesitate--I will not say to give
yourself to me, for that you have already done--but to become
my wife."
"Hesitate! No, not for an instant, not for a second! To do it
is the joy of my soul, the happiness of my life! Your wife? I
am your wife in the sight of God, and God will have granted my
every prayer on the day that he enables me to be your wife before
men."
Morgan fell on his knees.
"Then," he said, "here at your feet, with clasped hands and my
whole heart supplicating, I say to you, Amélie, will you fly
with me? Will you leave France with me? Will you be my wife in
other lands?"
Amélie sprang erect and clasped her head in her hands, as though
her brain were bursting with the force of the blood that rushed
to it. Morgan caught both her hands and looked at her anxiously.
"Do you hesitate?" he asked in a broken, trembling voice.
"No, not an instant!" she cried resolutely. "I am yours in the
past, in the present, in the future, here, everywhere. Only the
thought convulses me. It is so unexpected."
"Reflect well, Amélie. What I ask of you is to abandon country
and family, all that is dear to you, all that is sacred. If you
follow me, you leave the home where you were born, the mother
who nurtured you, the brother who loves you, and who, perhaps,
when he hears that you are the wife of a brigand, will hate you.
He will certainly despise you."
As he spoke, Morgan's eyes were anxiously questioning Amélie's
face. Over that face a tender smile stole gradually, and then
it turned from heaven to earth, and bent upon Morgan, who was
still on his knees before her.
"Oh, Charles!" she murmured, in a voice as soft as the clear
limpid river flowing at her feet, "the love that comes direct
from the Divine is very powerful indeed, since, in spite of those
dreadful words you have just uttered, I say to you without
hesitation, almost without regret: Charles, I am here; Charles,
I am yours. Where shall we go?"
"Amélie, our fate is not one to discuss. If we go, if you follow
me, it must be at once. To-morrow we must be beyond the frontier."
"How do we go?"
"I have two horses, ready saddled at Montagnac, one for you,
Amélie, and one for me. I have letters of credit for two hundred
thousand francs on London and Vienna. We will go wherever you
prefer."
"Wherever you are, Charles. What difference does it make so long
as you are there?"
"Then come."
"Can I have five minutes, Charles; is that too much?"
"Where are you going?"
"To say good-by to many things, to fetch your precious letters
and the ivory chaplet used at my first communion. Oh! there are
many sacred cherished souvenirs of my childhood which will remind
me over there of my mother, of France. I will fetch them and
return."
"Amélie!"
"What is it?"
"I cannot leave you. If I part with you an instant now I feel
that I shall lose you forever. Amélie, let me go with you."
"Yes, come. What matter if they see your footsteps now? We shall
be far enough away to-morrow. Come!" The young man sprang from
the boat and gave his hand to Amélie to help her out. Then he
folded his arm about her and they walked to the house.
On the portico Charles stopped.
"Go on alone," said he; "memory is a chaste thing. I know that,
and I will not embarrass you by my presence. I will wait here
and watch for you. So long as I know you are close by me I do
not fear to lose you. Go, dear, and come back quickly."
Amélie answered with a kiss. Then she ran hastily up to her room,
took the little coffer of carved oak clamped with iron, her treasury,
which contained her lover's letters from first to last, unfastened
from the mirror above her bed the white and virginal chaplet
that hung there; put into her belt a watch her father had given
her, and passed into her mother's bedchamber. There she stooped
and kissed the pillow where her mother's head had lain, knelt
before the Christ at the foot of the bed, began a thanksgiving
she dared not finish, changed it to a prayer, and then suddenly
stopped--she fancied she heard Charles calling her.
She listened and heard her name a second time, uttered in a tone
of agony she could not understand. She quivered, sprang to her
feet, and ran rapidly down the stairs.
"What is it?" cried Amélie, seizing the young man's hand.
"Listen, listen!" said he.
Amélie strained her ears to catch the sound which seemed to her
like musketry. It came from the direction of Ceyzeriat.
"Oh!" cried Morgan, "I was right in doubting my happiness to the
last. My friends are attacked. Adieu, Amélie, adieu!"
"Adieu!" cried Amélie, turning pale. "What, will you leave me?"
The sound of the firing grew more distinct.
"Don't you hear them? They are fighting, and I am not there to
fight with them."
Daughter and sister of a soldier, Amélie understood him and she
made no resistance.
"Go!" she said, letting her hands drop beside her. "You were right,
we are lost."
The young man uttered a cry of rage, caught her to his breast, and
pressed her to him as though he would smother her. Then, bounding
from the portico, he rushed in the direction of the firing with the
speed of a deer pursued by hunters.
"I come! I come, my friends!" he cried. And he disappeared like
a shadow beneath the tall trees of the park.
Amélie fell upon her knees, her hands stretched toward him without
the strength to recall him, or, if she did so, it was in so faint
a voice that Morgan did not stop or even check his speed to answer
her.
