Chapter XLI: Surrender

“And there the sunset skies unseal’d
Like lands he never knew,
Beyond tomorrow’s battle-field
Lay open out of view
To ride into.”
—D. G. ROSSETTI, _The Staff and Scrip_.

Inside the little church it was beginning to grow dusk, and the May twilight, as if in pity, shrouded the devastation which had recently been wrought there. Chalbos’ soldiers had passed not long ago through the village, and the traces of their passing were scored on the hacked woodwork of the choir, in the rents and fresh splintered wounds of the painted oak. The statue of Our Lady was headless; of the Child in her arms she held only half the body, and the image of Saint Roch lay its length on the pavement. Under one or two of the windows rested a splash of shattered glass. The door of the tabernacle had been wrenched off, and on the front of the bare stripped altar, whose stone had resisted all efforts at destruction, a wanton hand had begun, with a brushful of tar, to paint the words, “Liberté, Ega . . .” and had got no further. To all these spoliations was added Nature’s too, for half way up the pillars of the church ran the significant green stain of persistent damp, beautiful in itself, and doubly so in contrast with the faded blue of the roof, where there still glimmered a score or so of tarnished stars.

In front of the violated altar, just inside the rails, sat a priest, and before the rails knelt a Vendean. His musket lay on the steps beside him. Further down the church knelt two or three others, with their weapons and their rosaries. The priest was Sébastien des Graves, and he was hearing confessions at the altar because the confessionals had all been hacked to pieces.

That outrage, and the rest, would presently be avenged—so, at least, hoped every man in the great host now gathering to march on Fontenay—a host of which Gilbert de Château-Foix’ contingent, quartered in this village, formed but a small part. For since the end of April the whole country had been in arms; Cathelineau, Stofflet, Bonchamps, joined latterly by Lescure and La Rochejaquelein, had swept along on a tide of victory which had met its first check at Fontenay a week ago. To wipe out that defeat some thirty-five thousand Vendeans were on foot, and to these the little army of the centre had contributed four thousand men under its ablest lieutenant. To-night they rested here after their long march from the Four Roads; to-morrow they should effect their junction with the other chiefs.

When the footsteps of his last penitent had died away down the church, M. des Graves sat still, thinking of the morrow. He was going to say Mass in the open very early. After waiting for a few minutes, he took off his stole. As he did so, he heard the moan of the leathern door at the end of the church, and he slipped it on again with a little sigh for he was very tired. So dusk was it growing that he considered whether he should light the altar candles; and as he looked towards them his heart began suddenly to quicken. There was something familiar in the footsteps coming up the church. . . . Unable to resist the impulse, slowly, afraid, he turned his head to look.

Yes, it was Gilbert—Gilbert, tall, erect, booted and spurred, girt under his sword-belt with the white scarf of leadership, the red patch of the Sacred Heart on his breast. He walked straight up to the altar steps and knelt down, and the clank of his sword on the stone told the priest that it was no vision.

* * * * * *

And into Gilbert’s confession, before he had ended, was suddenly woven a snatch of the _Vexilla regis_, that hymn which they would all chant on the morrow as they marched, which some one passing the church was singing in a low voice of singular sweetness. The words drifted in through the shattered windows:—

“O crux, ave, spes unica;
Hoc passionis tempore,
Auge piis justitiam,
Reisque dona veniam”—

and died away as the singer passed on. But as M. des Graves raised in absolution a hand that shook a little, he heard Gilbert murmur to himself the last line, and then say, in a steady voice: “I should like you to lay my sword on the altar, Father. It has never been offered.”

The priest stood up. He was obliged to support himself by the rails. Gilbert unbuckled his sword, scabbard and all, and M. des Graves took it from his hands, and, going to the dark and outraged shrine, laid it thereon. Then he sank on his knees, his arms outstretched on the stone, and his head bowed upon it.

* * * * * *

At the door of Gilbert’s quarters, when he got there, stood a sentry, probably self-stationed, since for no duty had the Vendean peasant a stronger distaste. It was Toussaint Lelièvre, the young man who, since Louis had saved his life at Chantonnay, followed him about like a dog. There was, therefore, no need to ask if the Vicomte were within.

Louis was ensconced in the deep window-seat, with his sword upon his knees, polishing the weapon with energy. The golden afterglow behind him, falling upon his bent head and pure profile, gave him something the air of a Sir Galahad engaged in a similar task on the eve of conflict. He looked up as the door opened. “I was just snatching a moment for this job before going out to the pickets,” he said cheerfully. “However, I think this is quite clean enough to do justice to a Blue.” He got up, threw the rag in his hand on to the seat, and held out his shining blade upright at arm’s length, looking more like a Galahad than ever. Only the stainless knight never had so mischievous a sparkle in his eyes, nor such a tone of relish in his voice. “Yes, that will do,” he continued, running an appraising glance up and down the steel. “They like to see it bright; it encourages them to come on if they can see it about a mile in front of them.” In this Louis was referring not to the enemy but to their own men. It was by now well known that the Vendeans would not follow unless their leaders were ready to expose themselves in the rashest of manners—a fact which the Vicomte himself had found very useful to him when brought to book for exploits of surpassing imprudence. “Shall I give yours a rub? . . . Why, what have you done with it?”

“It is lying on the altar in the church,” said the Marquis quietly. He had crossed the room, and stood a little in shadow, between the table and the hearth. “Louis, I want to say something to you.”

It was the new expression on his face, as much as the extraordinary change in his tone, which made the Vicomte stand instantly motionless, while the sword in his hand gradually sank until its point touched the floor.

“It can be said in a very few words,” pursued Gilbert, “and I dare say that you can guess what it is. I want with all my heart to ask your forgiveness for the past—for my lack of generosity to you, for——”

“Oh, stop!” cried Louis, in distress. The sword went clattering from his hand. “Gilbert . . . You! ungenerous. . . .”

“Yes, I,” said the Marquis, coming a little nearer. And he went on with the same gentle gravity: “Even when I made—when I resigned my right to you . . . well, you must have known what hell was in my heart. Let me make that surrender anew to you, Louis, fully and freely, and let us be as we might always have been. . . . Do you forgive me?” He held out his hand.

And it was thus that Gilbert, the proud and taciturn, had found speech! What had happened? Louis had lost it. And the manner of Gilbert’s avowal, easy, effortless, yet so transparently sincere, seemed to inspire him with a kind of awe.

“I have not anything to forgive,” he stammered, drawing back from the outstretched hand. “How could I, after——”

At that the Marquis came nearer and put both hands on his shoulders. “Louis,” he said with still greater gentleness, “be as sincere as you are generous. You know that you have a very great deal to forgive—and most of all perhaps this, that—putting aside, if you will, all that happened at Chantemerle—while we might have been fighting side by side like brothers, while you were wanting to thank me, to hold out a hand to me, I would not have it so, I shut you out. . . . Isn’t that true, Louis?”

The younger man’s eyes fell. “Yes,” he said, very low, as if he were confessing to a fault of his own.

“Well, then. . . . ?”

The Vicomte lifted his head, and met the strange serene light in Gilbert’s eyes. His own keen gaze was misty. Without a word he flung himself into his cousin’s arms. . . .

And when they knelt side by side at daybreak next morning there was, in all the host who saw them, or who knelt with them at the rude altar under the shadow of the forest of Mervent, but one man who knew to what perfect reconciliation the Sacrament which he gave them was the seal. But he was also the one man to whom the knowledge very greatly mattered.