CHAPTER XXXIII
SISTER BÉNIE
It was a calm and beautiful August evening. In the sky, which was of a deep blue studded with stars, the moon had not yet risen; but the night was so much the more full of mystery, more dreamy, and more enchanting.
This mild tranquillity was in striking contrast with the commotion and uproar which had lasted through the day. The Spaniards had made two assaults in quick succession, and had been twice beaten back; but not before they had killed and wounded a larger number than the few defenders of the town could afford to lose. The enemy, on the other hand, had a strong reserve of fresh troops to replace those who were wearied in the contests of the day. So that Gabriel, always on his guard, feared that the two assaults were intended simply to exhaust the strength of the garrison and relax their vigilance, and that a third assault or a nocturnal surprise might have more chance of success. Meanwhile ten o'clock struck from La Collégiale, and nothing took place to confirm his suspicions. Not a light was to be seen among the Spanish tents. In the camp, as in the town, nothing could be heard but the monotonous cry of the sentinels; and the camp itself, like the town, seemed to be reposing after the severe labors of the day.
Consequently Gabriel, after making one last tour of the fortifications, thought that he might for a moment relax the unintermitted watch which he had kept over the town, like a son over his dying mother. St. Quentin had already held out four days since the young man's arrival. Four days more, and he will have kept the promise he made the king; and it will remain only for the king to be true to his.
Gabriel had ordered his squire to attend him, but without saying where he was going. Since his ill-luck of a day or two before with the superior, he had begun to have some suspicions of Martin-Guerre's intelligence, if not of his loyalty. So he had forborne to tell him of the precious information he had procured from Jean Peuquoy; and the false Martin-Guerre, who supposed he was accompanying his master merely on a circuit of the walls, was surprised to see him turn his steps toward the Boulevard de la Reine, where the principal ambulance had been established.
"Are you going to see some wounded man, Monseigneur?" said he.
"Silence!" was Gabriel's only reply, placing his finger to his lips.
The principal ambulance, which Gabriel and Arnauld reached at this moment, was quite near the ramparts, and not far from the Faubourg d'Isle, which was the most dangerous point, and the one consequently where relief was most essential. It was a large building which had been used before the siege as a storehouse for provisions, but had been placed at the disposal of the surgeons when the need became urgent. The mild summer night made it possible to leave the door in the centre open, to renew and freshen the air. From the foot of the steps, which led up to an outside gallery, Gabriel was able to look into this abode of suffering, where lamps were always kept burning.
It was a heart-rending spectacle. Here and there were a few blood-stained beds prepared in great haste; but such luxuries were reserved for the privileged few. The greater part were stretched on the floor, on mattresses or coverlets, or in some cases on straw simply. Sharp or plaintive moans were continually calling the surgeons or their assistants from all sides; but they, in spite of their zeal, could not hear them all. They attended to dressing those wounds which were most in need of it, and performed the most pressing amputations; the others had to wait. The trembling of fever or the convulsions of agony made the poor wretches twist and turn on their pallets; and where in some corner one of them lay at full length, motionless and without a sound, the winding-sheet laid upon his face told only too plainly that he would nevermore move or complain.
Before this sad and heart-rending picture the strongest and hardest hearts would have lost their courage and their callousness. Even Arnauld du Thill could not repress a shudder; and Gabriel's face became as pale as death.
But all at once a sad smile appeared upon the young man's pallid countenance. In the midst of this Inferno overflowing with suffering, like that described by Dante, a calm and radiant angel, a sweet and lovely Beatrix, burst upon his sight. Diane, Sister Bénie rather, passed tranquilly and sadly in and out among these poor sufferers.
Never had she seemed more beautiful to the dazzled Gabriel. Indeed, at the fêtes of the court, gold and diamonds and velvet did not so well become her as did the coarse woollen dress and white nun's stomacher in that dismal ambulance. With her lovely profile, her modest demeanor, and her look of consolation and encouragement, she might have been taken for the very incarnation of Pity, descending to this home of suffering. The most vivid imagination of a Christian soul could not picture her in more admirable guise; and nothing could be so affecting as to see this peerless beauty lean over the emaciated faces disfigured by anguish, and this king's child holding out her lovely hand to these nameless, dying soldiers.
Gabriel involuntarily thought of Madame Diane de Poitiers, engrossed at that moment, no doubt, with extravagant trifling and shameless amours; and marvelling at the marked contrast between the two Dianes, he said to himself that God had surely endowed the daughter with such virtues to redeem the faults of the mother.
While Gabriel, who was not ordinarily addicted to the habit of dreaming, thus lost himself in his reflections and his comparisons without taking heed of the flight of time, within the ambulance quiet gradually succeeded to the former confusion. The evening was already well advanced; the surgeons completed their rounds; and the bustle and the noise ceased. Silence and repose were enjoined upon the wounded men; and soothing draughts made it easier for them to obey the injunction. Here and there a pitiful moan would be heard, but no more of the almost incessant, heart-rending shrieks of pain. Before another quarter of an hour had elapsed, everything became as calm and quiet as such suffering can be.
Diane had said her last words of comfort and hope to her patients, and had urged rest and patience upon them after the physicians, and more effectively than they. All did their best to obey her voice, so sweet in its imperiousness. When she saw that the prescriptions ordered for each one were at hand, and that for the moment there was no further need of her, she drew a long breath, as if to relieve her breast from its oppressive burden, and drew near the exterior gallery, meaning, no doubt, to take a breath or two of fresh air at the door, and to obtain a little surcease of the wretchedness and weakness of man by gazing upon the stars in God's heaven.
She leaned upon a sort of stone balustrade; and her look, bent upward to the sky, failed to perceive at the foot of the steps, and within ten feet of her, Gabriel in a perfect ecstasy of delight at the sight of her, as if he were standing before some heavenly apparition.
A sharp movement on the part of Martin-Guerre, who did not seem to share in his ecstasy, brought our lover back to earth again.
"Martin," said he, in a low voice to his squire, "you see what a marvellous chance is within my grasp. I must and will take advantage of it, and speak—alas! perhaps for the last time—to Madame Diane. Do you meanwhile see that no one interrupts us, and keep watch a little apart, remaining nevertheless within call. Go, my faithful fellow; go."
"But, Monseigneur," Martin began to object, "are you not afraid that Madame la Supérieure—"
"She is in another room probably," said Gabriel. "At all events, I must not hesitate, in view of the necessity which may hereafter separate us forever."
Martin seemed to yield, and moved away, swearing to himself.
Gabriel drew a little nearer Diane; and restraining his voice so as to arouse the attention of no one else, he called her name softly,—
"Diane! Diane!"
Diane was startled; and her eyes, which had hardly got used to the darkness, did not detect Gabriel at first.
"Did some one call me?" she said. "Who is it?"
"I," Gabriel replied, as if Medea's monosyllable were enough to reveal his identity to her.
In good sooth it was; for Diane, without pursuing her inquiries any further, rejoined in a voice trembling with feeling and surprise:—
"You, Monsieur d'Exmès! Is it really you? And what do you want of me in this place and at this hour? If, as I have been told, you bring me news of the king my father, you have delayed it long, and you have chosen place and time very ill; if not, you know that there is nothing I can listen to from you, and nothing I want to hear. Well, Monsieur d'Exmès, you do not reply. Do you not understand me? You say nothing? What does this silence mean, Gabriel?"
"'Gabriel!' It is well with us, then!" cried the youth. "I made no reply, Diane, because your cold words froze my blood, and because I hadn't the strength to call you 'Madame,' as you called me 'Monsieur.'"
"Do not call me 'Madame,' and call me 'Diane' no more. Madame de Castro is no longer here. It is Sister Bénie who stands before you. Call me 'sister,' and I will call you my brother."
"What! What do you say?" cried Gabriel, recoiling in terror. "I call you my sister! Why in God's name do you ask me to call you my sister?"
"Why, it is the name by which every one knows me now," said Diane. "Is it such a terrible name, pray?"
"Yes, yes, indeed it is! Or rather, no! Forgive me; I am mad. It is a lovely and dear name. I will accustom myself to it, Diane; I will accustom myself to it—my sister."
"You must," Diane responded with a sad smile. "Besides, it is the real Christian title which will be suitable for me henceforth; for although I have not yet taken the vows, I am even now a nun at heart, and I soon shall be one in fact, I hope, when I shall have obtained the king's consent. Do you bring me that consent, my brother?"
"Oh!" exclaimed Gabriel, in a tone wherein reproach and grief were mingled.
"Mon Dieu!" said Diane, "there is not the least bitterness in my words, I assure you. I have suffered so much recently among men that I have naturally sought shelter with God. It is not anger which rules my actions and my words, but sorrow."
Indeed, there was in Diane's speech an accent that told of sadness and suffering; and yet in her heart that sadness was mingled with an involuntary joy which she could not conceal at the sight of Gabriel, whom she had long ago believed to be lost to her love and to the world, and whom she found to-day vigorous and manly, and, it might be, still fond of her.
And so, without wishing, almost without knowing it, she had descended two or three steps, and drawn on by an invincible power, had come so much nearer to Gabriel.
"Listen," said he. "This cruel misunderstanding which is rending our hearts must come to an end. I can no longer bear the thought that you do not understand me, that you believe in my indifference to you or (who knows?) in my hatred for you. That terrible suspicion worries me even in the midst of the sacred and difficult task which it is for me to accomplish. But come a little apart, my sister. You still trust in me, do you not? Let us move away from this spot, I beg you. Even if we cannot be seen, we may be overheard; and I have reason to fear that some one may desire to interrupt our interview,—this interview which, I tell you, my sister, is essential to my reason and my peace of mind."
Diane reflected no longer. Such words from such lips were omnipotent with her. She ascended two steps to look into the hall and see if she was needed; and finding everything quiet, she at once went back to Gabriel, resting her hand confidingly in the loyal one of her faithful knight.
"Thanks," said Gabriel. "Moments are precious; for what I fear, do you know, is that the superior, who knows of my love now, would object to our having this explanation, deep and pure though my love for you is, my sister."
"That explains, then," said Diane, "why, after having told me of your arrival and of your wish to see me, good Mother Monique, informed by some one, no doubt, of the past, which I confess I had partly concealed from her, has kept me from leaving the convent for three days, and would have kept me in this evening too if my turn to do night duty in the ambulance had not arrived, and I had not insisted upon fulfilling my sad duty. Oh, Gabriel, is it not wrong in me to deceive her,—my sweet and venerable friend?"
"Must I then tell you again that with me it is as if you were with your brother, alas! that I ought to and will hush the impulses of my heart, and speak to you only as a friend should speak, but a friend who is ever devoted to you, and would gladly die for you, but who will listen to his melancholy rather than his love, never fear?"
"Speak, then, my brother!" said Diane.
"My brother!"—that horrible and yet delightful name always reminded Gabriel of the strange and mysterious alternative which his destiny had laid before him, and like a magic word drove away the burning thoughts which the silent night and the ravishing beauty of his beloved might well have awakened in the young man's heart.
"My sister," said he, in a steady voice, "it was absolutely necessary that I should see you and speak with you, so that I might address two prayers to you. One relates to the past, the other to the future. You are kind and obliging, Diane; and I know you will grant them both to a dear friend who may perhaps never meet you more on his path through life, and whom a fatal and perilous mission exposes to the risk of death at every moment."
"Oh, don't say that! don't say that!" cried Madame de Castro, almost fainting, and proving the extent of her love in her distraction and horror at the thought.
"I say it to you, my sister," Gabriel responded, "not to alarm you, but that you may not refuse me a pardon and a favor. The pardon is for the terror and grief which my delirious utterances must have caused you the day when I saw you last at Paris. I cast terror and desolation into your poor heart. Alas, my sister, it was not I who spoke to you; it was the fever in my blood. I did not know what I said, upon my word! And a terrible revelation, which had been made to me that very day, and which I could scarcely keep to myself, filled my soul with madness and despair. Perhaps you remember, my sister, that it was just after leaving you that I was stricken with that long and painful illness which almost cost me my life or my reason?"
"Do I remember it, Gabriel!" cried Diane.
"Do not call me Gabriel, if you please! Call me always your brother, as you did just now,—call me your brother! That name, which terrified me at first, I find it necessary to hear now."
"As you choose, my brother," said Diane, with amazement.
At that moment, fifty paces from them, the regular tramp of a body of men on the march was heard, and Sister Bénie, full of terror, pressed close to Gabriel.
"Who is that? Mon Dieu! they will see us!" she exclaimed.
"It is one of our patrols," answered Gabriel, much disturbed.
"But they will pass very near us, and will recognize me or hail us. Oh, let me go in, quick, before they come any nearer! Let me go, I pray!"
"No; it is too late!" said Gabriel, detaining her. "To attempt to fly now would be to expose yourself. Come this way, rather,—come up here, my sister!"
And followed by the trembling Diane, he hastily mounted a stairway, hidden by a stone buttress, which led to the very walls. There he ensconced Diane and himself between an untenanted sentry-box and the battlements.
The patrol passed within twenty paces without seeing them.
"Well, this certainly is a poorly guarded point!" said Gabriel, in whom his dominant thought was always on the alert.
But his mind at once reverted to Diane, who was hardly at her ease yet.
"You may feel safe now, my sister," said he; "the danger is over. But now listen to me, for time passes, and my two burdens are still heavy on my heart. In the first place, you have not told me that you forgive my madness, and so I am still carrying this weary load of the past."
"Does one forgive the madness of fever and the ravings of despair?" said Diane. "No, my brother, we must pity and comfort them rather. I bore you no ill-will; no, I wept for you. And now that I see that you are restored to life and reason, I am resigned to the will of God."
"Ah, my sister, it is not resignation alone that you should feel!" cried Gabriel; "you must be hopeful too. That is why I was anxious to see you. You have lifted my burden of remorse for the past, and I thank you; but you must also remove the weight of anguish which weighs upon my heart for your future. You are, as you well know, one of the principal objects for which I live. It is necessary that my mind should be tranquillized as to that object, so that I may only have to concern myself, as I go my way, with the perils of the road; it must be that I may count upon finding you waiting for me at the end of my journey with a welcoming smile, sad if I fail, and joyous if I succeed, but in any event with the welcoming smile of a friend. With that object in view, there should be no misunderstanding between us. Meanwhile, my sister, it will be necessary that you should trust my word, and have a little confidence in me; for the secret which lies at the root of all my actions does not belong to me. I have sworn not to reveal it; and if I wish that the promises made to me should be kept, I must in my turn keep the promises that I have made to others."
"Explain yourself," said Diane.
"Ah," rejoined Gabriel, "you see how I hesitate and beat around the bush, because I am thinking of the garb that you wear, and of the name of sister, by which I am calling you, and, more than all else, of the profound respect for you that dominates my heart; and I do not wish to say one word to awake distressing memories or elusive hopes. And yet I must say to you that your beloved image has never been effaced, has never even faded in my soul, and that no person and no event can ever weaken it."
"My brother!" Diane interrupted, confused and delighted at the same time.
"Oh, hear me to the end, my sister!" said Gabriel. "I say again, nothing has changed, and nothing will ever change, this ardent—devotion which I have consecrated to you; and more than that, I am only too happy to think and to say that whatever happens to me, it will always be not only my blessed privilege, but my bounden duty, to love you. But what is the nature of this sentiment? God only knows, alas! but we shall soon know too, I hope. Meanwhile, this is what I have to ask of you, my sister: trusting in the Lord and your father, do you leave everything to Providence and my friendship, hoping nothing, but not despairing either. Understand me, pray! You told me long ago that you loved me; and pardon my presumption, but I seem to feel in my heart that you can love me still if our fate so wills. Now, my wish is to lessen the too distressing effect of my mad words when I parted from you at the Louvre. We must not deceive ourselves with vain imaginings, nor, on the other hand, believe that everything is over for us in this world. We must wait. In a short time I shall come to you and say one of two things. Either this: 'Diane, I love you; remember our childhood and your promises. You must be mine, Diane; and we must resort to every possible means to obtain the king's consent.' Or else I shall say to you: 'My sister, an irresistible fatality stands in the way of our love, and opposes our happiness; we are in no way to blame for it, and it is something more than human—yes, almost divine—which stands between us, my sister. I give you back your promise; you are free. Give your life to another; you cannot be blamed for it, nor even, alas! are you to be pitied. No; our tears, even, would be out of place. Let us bow our heads without a word, and accept with resignation our inevitable destiny. You will always be dear and holy in my eyes; but our two lives, which may still, thank God! be lived side by side, can never be united.'"
"What a strange and fearful enigma!" Madame de Castro, lost in terrified thought, could not refrain from saying.
"An enigma," responded Gabriel, "of which I can give you the key-word at that time, no doubt. Until then it will be in vain that you seek to discover the secret, my sister; so be patient, and pray. Promise me, at least, that you believe in my loyalty to you, and that you will no longer cherish the purpose of renouncing the world to bury yourself in a cloister. Promise me that you will have faith and hope, even as you have already had charity.”
"Faith in you and hope in God; yes, I can readily promise that now, my brother. But why do you wish me to promise to return to the world if I am not to go thither in your company? Is not my heart enough? And why do you wish that I should give my life to you as well, when, after all, it may not be to you that I devote it? Within and without, everything is dark, O God!"
"Sister," said Gabriel, in his deep, solemn tones, "I ask this promise of you that I may go forward in peace of mind and resolution upon my perilous and perhaps fatal path, and that I may be sure of finding you free and waiting for me at the rendezvous which I have appointed for you."
"Very well, my brother; and I will obey you," said Diane.
"Oh, thanks, thanks!" cried Gabriel. "Now the future belongs to me. Will you place your hand in mine as a pledge of your promise, my sister?"
"Here it is, my brother."
"Ah, now I am sure of being victorious!" cried the impetuous youth. "Henceforth it seems to me as if nothing could contravene my wishes and my plans."
At this moment, as if to give the lie twice over to this hopeful dream, voices were heard from the direction of the town calling Sister Bénie; and at the same time Gabriel thought that he heard a slight noise in the moat behind him. But at first he concerned himself only with Diane's terror.
"They are looking for me and calling me. Holy Virgin! if they should find us together! Adieu, my brother! Adieu, Gabriel!"
"Au revoir, my sister; au revoir, Diane! And now go! I will stay here. You wandered out by yourself to take the air. We shall meet soon again; and once more I thank you."
Diane hastily descended the steps and ran to meet the people, who with torches in their hands were calling her name everywhere with all their might, Mother Monique at their head.
Who, by seemingly foolish hints, had aroused the superior? Who, if not Master Arnauld, who with the most grief-stricken air was among those who were hunting for Sister Bénie? No one had such an ingenuous air as this rascal could assume, wherein he resembled the true Martin-Guerre so much the more.
Gabriel, reassured as to Diane's safety when he saw her join Mother Monique and her search-party unharmed, was making ready to leave the fortifications himself, when suddenly a dark form rose from the ground behind him.
A man, an enemy, armed from head to foot, was just bestriding the wall.
To rush at this man and prostrate him with one blow of his sword, crying in a sonorous voice, "Alarm! alarm!" to spring to the top of the ladder, covered with Spaniards, which was placed against the wall,—was the work of but an instant for Gabriel.
It was an attempted night surprise, and Gabriel had not erred: the enemy had made the two day assaults in quick succession to enable them to make this bold attempt at night with better chance of success.
But Providence or, to speak more accurately, if perhaps with less religious feeling, love had led Gabriel to the spot. Before another man had time to follow upon the platform the one he had already killed, he seized with his strong hands the two uprights of the ladder and overturned it, with the ten men who were upon it.
Their cries as they struck the ground were confused with Gabriel's unceasing shouts, "To arms!" But at a distance of twenty paces another ladder was already against the wall; and at that point there was no footing for Gabriel. Luckily he spied in the shadow a large rock; and the imminent peril increasing his strength, he succeeded in raising it upon the parapet, whence he had only to push it over upon the second ladder. The great weight broke it in two at a blow; and the poor wretches who were swarming up fell into the moat, bruised or dying, their agonizing shrieks causing their companions to hesitate.
Meanwhile Gabriel's shouts had given the alarm; the sentinels had taken it up; the drums were beating to arms; the alarm-bell on La Collégiale was ringing lustily. Five minutes had not elapsed ere more than a hundred men had joined Vicomte d'Exmès, and were ready to assist him in repulsing any assailants who might still dare to show their heads, and likewise firing upon those who were in the moat, and unable to respond to the volleys from their arquebuses.
Thus this bold coup de main of the Spaniards failed. Its only chance of success, in truth, was to find that the point of attack was undefended, as they supposed that it was; but Gabriel, happening to be on the spot, had baffled their scheme. The assaulting party had no choice but to withdraw, which they did as quickly as possible, leaving, however, a number of dead behind them, and carrying away a number of injured men.
Again the town had been saved, and again by Gabriel's hand.
But it was necessary that it should still hold out for four long and weary days, before the promise he had made to the king would be fulfilled.