Chapter XVIII: Choosing the Path (4)

There was a difference of opinion; some hesitated. To defend ourselves, objected one, would be madness; we should only incur a more cruel death. Instead of being simply shot, we shall be slaughtered by a mob or consumed in the flames. “Let us call up the national guards,” exclaimed a simple fellow (I had not believed such _naiveté_ possible 359 at La Roquette), “and prove to them that we are honest men, and not robbers and assassins.” “It is not _our_ lives they wish,” cried a soldier, whose impartial truthfulness renders it obligatory on me to repeat his words, and who had as little discernment as moral sense, “it is only the _curés_ they have a grudge against; let us not expose our lives in trying to defend theirs!”

I had not yet uttered a word, but followed with an anxiety, easy to comprehend, the phases of this strange situation. Some of my brethren asked what there was to fear or to hope for. “The _sergents de ville_ who are below are disposed to defend themselves,” cried the warden Pinet, whom the hesitation rendered more energetic and more eloquent. “Do not allow yourselves to be shot by that band of robbers.” I was already convinced that resistance, the success of which I thought more than improbable, was nevertheless the most suitable measure to be taken. From the eighteenth of March I had not ceased to protest against the silence and giving up of honest men to criminals; and to show myself to the end faithful to my programme, I emerged from my apparent inaction. M. Walbert, an old _officier de paix_, and the Abbé Carré, the Vicar of Belleville, suggested that a hole should be made in the floor to open communication with the _sergents de ville_ imprisoned on the second story, and they immediately set to work with boards and iron rods that we wrenched from our beds. I joined them. I, who in the morning had no longer strength enough to stand, and who had not yet eaten a mouthful of bread, broke boards in pieces and twisted off the rods with irresistible facility! In five minutes a large opening was made between the second and third stories. The _sergents de ville_ were ready to pay dearly for their lives. The under-officer Teyssier hoisted himself through the opening to aid Pinet in the command of the insurrection.

The interior court of the prison was crowded by an abject multitude come to witness our last sufferings. It is easier to imagine than to depict the appearance and the threats of this crowd. We put mattresses against the windows as a protection against bullets. There was a young man in the crowd who ordered us to come down, and aimed at us with a coolness that attracted my attention. “See that wretch,” said the warden Pinet to me, “he is one of the two condemned to death by the court of assize of the Seine!.”

“The barricade is on fire,” exclaimed some soldiers. “We are stifled! Help!”

Two enormous barricades had been constructed against the two doors of the story, with our beds and the flagstones torn up from the floor. I ran to the barricade on fire, and found myself in a cloud of smoke. “Do not be alarmed,” said a soldier, whose skill and presence of mind I admired, “I constructed the barricade, and took care to place only mattresses in front: bring me some water.” In fifteen minutes the fire was extinguished. I heard the insurgents, who sometimes threatened to set fire to our building, to blow it up, or order the batteries of Père-la-Chaise to fire at it: sometimes they perfidiously cried: “_Vive la ligne!_ surrender, and we will set you free!” The massacres of those who trusted to their promises proved how sincere they were.

At that moment, something as unexpected as fortunate took place in the prison. While we were organizing a desperate resistance, and the soldiers, more bold than prudent, were crying, “Let us go down to the 360 office, and boldly attack the Commune!” the Communists, frightened at our resistance and the rapid progress of the French army along the Boulevard du Prince Eugène, hastily fled from La Roquette in the direction of Belleville. The rabble, astonished at this sudden removal, were convinced of the great danger, and fled after them. The prisoners were restored to liberty, and naturally cried: _Vive la République! vive la Commune!_

Availing themselves of this confusion, the lay hostages who were to have been shot with us escaped from La Roquette: almost all succeeded in crossing the barricades or hiding till the next day in the late haunts of insurrection. Some of the clergy imitated them; others, particularly Mgr. Surat, who was dressed as a layman, hesitated. The wardens, from motives more praiseworthy than prudent, urged them to fly. This course seemed to me disastrous. The neighborhood of the prison was in the hands of the insurgents, whose irritation knew no bounds. I thought it my duty to warn the first vicar-general of Paris, and said to him through the bars: “Take care; to leave is certain death; to remain, uncertain!” I ascertained afterwards that I had not been heard. In going out of the prison, he was murdered in a frightful manner, with M. Bécourt, the curé of Bonne Nouvelle; M. Houillon, a missionary of the Missions Etrangères, and a lay prisoner. Some priests succeeded in concealing themselves in the Faubourg St. Antoine, and some returned to the prison.

Notwithstanding the departure of the insurgents who were to put us to death, we were still exposed to sudden attack and every danger while the prison gates were unfastened. I therefore protested in violent terms to the two wardens, who, frightened at the terrible consequences that would result from a return of the insurgents, urged us strongly to descend and go out. “We will not go out,” I replied; “the Versailles troops will be here in a few hours: if any misfortune happens to us by your fault, on you will fall the responsibility. Fasten all the prison doors, and only open them to the Versaillais.”

They warmly reproached me for an obstinacy they thought must prove fatal to us, but they faithfully obeyed my orders.

At eleven o’clock at night, the firing, which was not far off, ceased. The frenzied demagogues without uttered powerless threats against us. We kept a strict guard, and seriously began to hope. At a quarter before three, the firing recommenced toward Père-la-Chaise. Every hour now seemed an age. There was a formidable barricade in the Rue de la Roquette in front of the prison. Attacked on the side of the Bastille, it would have opposed a formidable resistance on account of its steepness, but, owing to the winding and concentric course of the French army, the insurgents, stormed from the heights occupied by our troops, left the barricade in disorder, and a battalion of marines took possession of La Roquette. Our resistance, that at first was only madness, ended miraculously. It was the great festival of Whit-Sunday. After four days of the greatest agony that can be imagined, we were, contrary to all expectation, restored to life and liberty.

While some of the prisoners cried, “Vive l’armee! Vive la France!” the most of them, affected by want of sleep and the mental torture that no human tongue could express, persisted in regarding our liberators as insurgents disguised as marines. Then began a singular negotiation between the prisoners and the marines, in which the former, more 361 incredulous than St. Thomas, saw nothing but snares, and the latter with immovable patience submitted to requirements that were almost puerile. The arms, flags, books, and papers of the battalion were demanded. The marines consented, but the prisoners, blinded and confused, were still far from being reassured concerning the identity of the marines.

Some of my companions and myself, who could not believe a disguise could be so perfect, were distressed at this prolonged hesitation, far from flattering to our courageous deliverers. We induced our companions to allow us to go out, that they might judge from our reception what course to take themselves. At the sight of the marines who rush toward us, not to massacre us, but to shake our hands and rejoice over our deliverance, the confidence of our companions revived, and they came to receive their share of cordial sympathy.

My surprise was great when I heard General Vinoy’s aide-de-camp eagerly inquire for Mgr. Darboy and M. Deguerry. “Where are they? How do they do?” It was four days since they were massacred by the Commune, and the frightful reality was still unknown at Versailles and Paris. Knowing the profound affection of the brave General Vinoy for the Archbishop of Paris, his aide-de-camp begged me to give him some correct details, which he immediately despatched to the general and to Versailles.

They were still fighting furiously around La Roquette. We were obliged to wait nearly an hour at the office, where we found, in fearful disorder, cartridges, cigars, swords, guns, proscription lists, proclamations, and the decrees of the expiring Commune, never to be issued.

Accompanied by an escort bearing before us the French flag, we set out in a body by the heights of the Faubourg St. Antoine, the Jardin des Plantes, and the quais on the left bank of the river, toward our homes. At each step we had to struggle against the most poignant emotions. Here, in the boulevards, were heaps of men and horses who had been killed, with pools of blood beside piles of cartridges and broken chassepots. There, trees were broken down and houses shattered by shells. The few inhabitants we met seemed confounded and in despair. Further on, we uttered a cry of horror at the sight of the Hôtel de Ville, the Palais de Justice, the entrance of the Rue du Bac, the Tuileries, and the palaces of the Conseil d’Etat and of the Légion d’Honneur in flames or in ashes.

In the Rue des Saintes-Pères, a gentleman and lady whom I knew, but whose names I could not recall, stopped to ask if I was one of the Jesuit Fathers, and if I came from La Roquette. They wished news of Père Caubert. I informed them he was shot on Friday with Père Olivaint. At this, the gentleman raised his eyes to heaven, while the lady made an effort to overcome her emotion. “You see before you,” said he, “Père Caubert’s sister!” It was M. Lauras, one of the directors of the Orleans Railway, and Madame Lauras, _née_ Caubert.

I accompanied the soldiers, who had participated in my captivity, to the Palais Bourbon, and after a fraternal grasp of the hand I turned toward the Madeleine. The Place de la Concorde was upset, and a part of the Rue Royale burned down with petroleum. I found the Madeleine standing, and my residence in the Rue de la Ville-l’Evêque, but both injured by the firing. No one knew of, and what was more strange, no 362 one would believe in, the horrible deaths of Mgr. Darboy and M. Deguerry. My two _confrères_ at the Madeleine expressed the same doubt, the same incredulity. When at vespers I was about to ascend the pulpit to recommend the victims to the prayers of the faithful, they advised me to defer it, hoping the fatal news would not be confirmed.

I had told it to more than one hundred persons, begging them to inform, in their turn, the other parishioners of the Madeleine, but when, in an affecting but cautious and brief manner, I requested the faithful gathered at the foot of the altar to pray for the pastor of the diocese and the curé of the parish, basely shot on the twenty-fourth of May, in the prison of La Roquette, a cry of grief and horror escaped from every soul; the men and the women rose up in confusion, as if to protest against it; the gravest and most reverential for a moment seemed to lose their balance. Among the confused voices around the pulpit, these words were the most distinct: “No, no, such a crime is not possible!”

My moral conclusions will be simple and brief. It would be an insult to the reader to dwell on the great lessons to be drawn from such sorrowful and overwhelming catastrophes.

First Lesson. Divine Providence never chastised and enlightened a nation by severer blows. It behooves us therefore to consider the grave and exceptional malady that is afflicting society, and seek an efficacious and permanent remedy for it. We are all suffering from the evil, and we all should be preoccupied about the means of recovery.

Some days after leaving La Roquette, I wished to revisit the places where I had been imprisoned, in order to retrace, with precision, the events that took place in the last days of the Commune. I met there one of the most intelligent and most religious _juges d’instruction_ on the bench of the Seine. I visited with him the places of the greatest interest, Mgr. Darboy’s cell, and the spot on the circular road where the murder of the six principal hostages took place. The warden took us to Troppmann’s cell. “I supposed, till within a few days,” said I to the magistrate of the Seine, “that criminals like Troppmann were of a rare species that required fifty or sixty years to develop in the lowest grades of society. After the realities I witnessed at La Roquette, I am convinced they are to be found by thousands in Paris.” The _juge d’instruction_ replied that all the magistrates who studied the mysteries of those grades had the same conviction. It would therefore be simply folly not to consider the remedy most suitable to counteract such a disorder.

Second Lesson. In the horrible catastrophe that has just revealed so many material or moral sores, every one is more or less responsible and culpable. Every one should say his _meâ culpâ_, and seek to become better. The most guilty are certainly the turbulent working classes, the demagogues, the International, the secret societies, outlaws, and governments without morality, but they alone are not guilty. Literary men who diffuse in their pernicious publications the poison of scepticism and immorality; artists who are wanting in respect and decency; the journals of the rich and influential _bourgeoisie_, which defend the principles of material conservation, while by their attacks on the Holy See, the clergy, and the church generally, they sap the very foundations of morality; politicians who brutally proclaim, with a view to the rewards and the gratification of their cupidity, the 363 primacy of might against right--should disavow and correct their errors. Pious people and the clergy should redouble their solicitude and energy in extending and strengthening their influence, particularly in the most populous districts. There are no other means of safety.

Third Lesson. The reign of the Commune has revealed a frightful number of wicked men in society capable of every excess. They have trampled under foot the very first principles of natural order and social life, which the Reign of Terror would have feared to disregard. The executions at La Roquette, without preparation, without discussion or preliminary trial, were a thousand times more monstrous than the executions of the Revolutionary tribunal. In 1793, the Dantons and Robespierres were imitators, more or less imposing, of the Catilines of ancient Rome: in 1871, we have had Raoul Rigault and Ferré, the Catilines of the gutter. Ferocious beasts are not reasoned with--they are muzzled. Society therefore should have a power of legal repression proportioned to the dangers that threaten it.

But as the material order of things is founded on the moral order, the great principles of reverence for God, a respect for others and for ourselves, should be diffused and practised. It has been wished to establish society with no religious belief, make laws, found institutions, and keep the people in order, without reference to the teachings of the Gospel: this is building the social edifice upon quicksands. How can an economist, a politician, however incredulous, help understanding that while the mass in the great cities, especially at Paris, do not find in the faith, in the observance of religious duties, and in the eternal recompense of a future life, a source of morality, strength and consolation in view of the inequalities of fortune and social position, in view of the enjoyments and leisure of the fortunate ones of this world and of the unforeseen trials and sufferings that too often beset them, there can be neither security nor repose?

Jesus Christ and his Gospel are still the salt of the earth and the light of the world. To withdraw society from this divine and guiding influence would condemn it to sorrow, crime, and shame.

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GOD IS OUR AID. 364

A CHRISTMAS STORY OF ‘67.

In the dim twilight of an October evening, a rich man prepared to leave the vast treasures accumulated by a fruitless life. Fruitless, I say, for though his increasing millions ranked him a merchant prince of the great metropolis, yet the gold had hardened and crusted and metallized his heart--fusing a subtle poison that destroyed the softer instincts of his nature. Therefore, instead of bearing upward a Godward soul on prayerful incense, those last pulses concentrated in one bitter feeling against the daughter whose faith had won from him the intense hate of his life. The owner of millions each year increased his avarice, bowing him low before the god of the nineteenth century, and inciting the struggle, the sacrifice, the sin, for place and station and gold, literally proving the poet-king’s cry,[82] “_Quoniam omnes dii Gentium dæmonia!_” So, while the stormy gusts swept up the avenue, and the lowering sky increased the night, the old man gathered his failing strength for the last great effort. “Hold me, William, support me ere it is too late. Quick! give me the pen, I must sign while yet my hand has power.” Then they put the pen in his trembling hand, his stalwart son supporting him, and all the fiercer passions played upon that cold face, and in those cruel eyes, as he wrote the signature disinheriting the child of the wife whose fair face looked in silent reproach from the portrait opposite. And William Stanfield folded the paper and locked it in the escritoire, and old Thomas of the iron heart “slept the last sleep.” But this Stanfield, he of the stern Puritan stock, had not always been thus. First, he married his wife as a mere boy of twenty--a gentle New England girl--who had left William to him; William, so staunch in his loyalty to the heritage left by the _Mayflower_ stock. But Thomas laid his boyish love to rest within the quiet “God’s-acre” of the village church, and then wandered to New York to build his fortune. Fate did not withhold her favors from this sturdy son, who met and conquered her; for he was determined to succeed, and did!

And strange to say that at this time human softness yet lived amid the dross and corruption of the world, for Thomas Stanfield was by no means indifferent to certain influences. So, one bright Christmas morning, he found himself in New Orleans, and, stranger still to relate, his partner, Mons. Crécy, persuaded him to listen to the magnificent service at ---- Church. The music was exquisitely appealing, thrilling the nobler attributes of man’s better nature; and so this worldly materialist forgot to speculate or dream of gold for two long hours, and sat rapt, while his soul absorbed its divine inspiration. If there is a season when the hardness of humanity dissolves and merges into its spiritual essence, it is when music gently lifts it to its higher affinities, and brings it _en rapport_ with God. And thus the man of gold listened to the soft soprano, and far beyond the latticed grating caught a glimpse of dark eyes that haunted him long after the anthem ended. And when Etienne 365 Crécy asked him to dine at the “Grove,” his plantation near the city, he accepted, scarcely realizing what he did till he found himself behind a pair of splendid bays, with New Orleans far in the distance.

The balmy, bright-skied South always brought a pleasant Christmas, for oranges hung golden on the trees that formed the grove leading to the house, and the sweet breath of the blossoms perfumed the air. This to the Northerner, accustomed to ice and snow at this season, was a most enjoyable contrast; and his stroll over the beautiful grounds afforded real pleasure. Then they rested on the broad piazza, or gallery, as it is called in Louisiana, and talked of business details, when suddenly Mons. Crécy discovered that his guest was strangely distrait, for a clear, soft voice was sounding, to an accompanying harp, and Mr. Stanfield recognized the same silver tones that had absorbed him during the morning service. “_Qui tollis peccata mundi, suscipe deprecationem nostram_,” fell earnest and tender on his ear--it was, it must be, the same, and he turned to M. Crécy. “It is my daughter Madelaine,” said the old man; and at dinner he saw the same fawn-eyes that had first glanced from behind the grating in the old church. And those shy, sweet eyes found a place in the heart of the cold New Englander, and in the spring he bore her a bride to his beautiful home in New York.

Three years passed, and only the step-son shared their household. Some trouble attended the marriage, for the parish priest, Father Jean, at first refused to unite her with such an obstinate heretic. But the maiden loved this son of the Puritans, so either her gentle influence or his pertinacious perseverance overcame the scruples of the good priest, and Thomas Stanfield finally triumphed, giving some vague promise in reference to the children. He fully intended evading the fulfilment of the promise, for soon after his marriage he acknowledged thus much to his wife, who, with tears in her dark eyes, said she would only pray for God’s grace to change him. So, almost as a curse it seemed, for three years no child came to bless the marriage. True, the young wife was very dear to this stern husband, but the element which had strengthened his forefathers still waxed strong within him, and the self-asserting dogmatism heired from John Carver’s band sounded in the stern words that answered his wife when, with quivering lips, she told him of his little daughter’s advent. He kissed the pale young mother tenderly and lovingly, but even in that hour he did not restrain himself from replying, “She belongs to me!” and Madelaine understood too well what those words implied. So she only whispered, as her white face grew whiter, “_I will leave her to God._ May our Holy Mother care for her!”

Then the gentle soul departed with the cross upon her bosom, and those last words on her lips, and many, many years after Thomas Stanfield heard repeated in his dreams, “God shall help her.”

And a judgment rested on the rich man’s harvest, for this warm-hearted, earnest Southern wife was very dear to him. But the child grew in loveliness, and her impulsive nature felt the need of more than her cold father accorded. Firm as he had been in reference to the child, it seemed strange that he evinced so much indifference to her education, for though she had been baptized in his own church, and sent to Protestant schools, yet very little care was bestowed upon her religious instruction. When she grew old enough, she 366 accompanied her father to church, and through the long sermons her weary little eyes would often close. She went merely from habit, because her father wished her with him, for there was nothing in the cold, formal ritual, if that bare service can be called a ritual, to attract or warm her heart; but it was part of her duty to go; and so she went. Thus her childhood passed, and so her girlhood opened. Children rarely exert the reasoning faculties, accepting with boundless trust what is proposed by their elders. Faith and confidence are largely developed, therefore a grave record is written of those intrusted with these young immortals. But when reason waked and the heart expanded, this warm loving nature asked for more than what was offered, and her soul felt starved, hungry for the food it found not. Thomas Stanfield was now devoted to his business, from nine in the morning, when his _coupé_ drove him to his office, to six in the evening, when his key opened the massive door of his palace--his whole soul entered into the fascination, the strife for increasing millions. And at night, as he sat silent in his high carved chair, the closed eyes and set features told that the scheming still continued. Was it strange, then, that the young girl yearned for something more than her home offered? Well, one September evening, soon after their return from the country, the servant handed in a card, bearing the simple inscription, “Kenneth C. Arnaud.” Then Mr. Stanfield, disturbed in the midst of some speculation, testified by a grunt his welcome to a distant relative of his wife. “This is Miss Stanfield, my daughter,” he said, as he seemed to remember that another person occupied the room. The stranger was a courtly, handsome gentleman, and started as his eyes rested on the young girl. “How like my cousin Madelaine,” he said, “as I remember her in my childhood.” For the first time the old man seemed to realize the resemblance, and turned to examine the fair girl who was his daughter. “Yes,” he faintly assented, and the conversation dragged through a half-hour’s duration, when Mr. Arnaud rose to go. But this was not his last visit, for he passed the winter in the city; and many evenings found him at Mr. Stanfield’s house, where Madelaine sang to him the songs he loved best. Then a new life opened to the young girl, and her heart felt a strange happiness it had never known before.

The Advent season came--a time of joy and gladness in the churches that celebrate this season, but scarcely remembered or noticed in dissenting congregations; and on the first Sunday that Mr. Arnaud formed one of the family party, he proposed that Madelaine should accompany him to St. ----’s church, as the music was always attractive there. Old Mr. Stanfield was half asleep, when the name of this Roman Catholic church startled him. “Only to listen to the music, papa!” she laughingly replied to his frown, and she went. The ritual was new to her, the service a strange mystery, but she patiently watched it all, listening to the exquisite bursts from the choir. Then sounded the “Alma” with its sweet cadence, and the heart of the young girl thrilled within her. She could not explain, but she felt a strange attraction that drew her against her will to this beautiful ritual. Then came the lovely benediction, and the devotion of the kneeling hundreds, the solemn censer’s cloudlike offering, the elevation, and the echoing bell, at which a hush swept like an angel’s presence over 367 the rapt thousands. It was all a lovely dream to this young enthusiast, and, closing her eyes, troops of seraphim and cherubim seemed prolonging the words--

“Tantum ergo Sacramentum
Veneremur cernui.”

She returned to her home filled with a new life, and for the first time her soul felt its thralls. She was very quiet that night, and even her father remarked the change. Poor child! she had needed all that had been denied to her, and the starved spirit was just tasting of the food immortal. Is it not often thus in life, that a charm, a mere instinct, leads us to the path for which we have been vainly striving? Give me thine heart! was the cry of the Holy Mother to the footsore and weary, to all who sought consolation from that loving breast; and the listening angels caught the echo of that cry, and bore it up to the great Pontiff, who sends the Comforter to spread the white-winged dove on the troubled soul that calls for peace!

The spring came, after the long, cold winter, and Kenneth Arnaud asked the old man for his gentle daughter. But Mr. Stanfield had always regarded Madelaine as a mere child, and seemed shocked and angry at the request. He had forgotten that eighteen years had passed since his soft-eyed wife had whispered, “I leave her to God”--and now a Catholic had asked his child in marriage! He did not answer the young man for several weeks, not till the sweet eyes of his daughter had been dimmed with many tears, and her childish heart had felt, ay, painfully felt, the first great sorrow of her life.

“It seems strange that my faith should prove an objection, Mr. Stanfield, for not very many years have passed since you gave your own example.”

The old man looked him steadily in the eyes, and replied:

“And the great unhappiness of that union was the education of the children that were to come. What say you of this?”

“That, your daughter shall determine.”

“You can speak this with safety, Mr. Arnaud, for my daughter has proved a quick pupil.”

“I can scarcely comprehend you, Mr. Stanfield, and, as a gentleman, will not understand the accusation implied.”

“I do not accuse you of influencing my daughter, but her bias in favor of the Romish Church is a subject that cannot afford me happiness.”

The conversation was serious, and very painful to both, and at last Mr. Stanfield closed the interview with this remark: “As my daughter’s happiness is concerned, I cannot withhold my consent, but I wish you to clearly understand that, when she renounces the church of her forefathers, she also relinquishes all right to her father’s estate.”

A proud smile curled the young man’s lips as he replied, “I feel privileged to claim her, even though the conditions were far more capable of inflicting unhappiness.”

And so they were married, and the old man and his son William bowed before the golden calf, and worshipped it, offering their souls as homage at its shrine.

For the young wife, one brief year of happiness passed, and yet there was unrest even then within her soul, for she craved with hungry longing the new life which she feared to taste, because the ties 368 binding her to her father appealed to her heart, and she dreaded an anger which she knew would never forgive what he considered so fearful an error.

But one cold morning in the winter of ‘61, the telegraph bore to New York tidings of the secession of Louisiana, then the sons of the sunny South rallied to her standard, and for four long years a bloody war desolated that section. She, the young wife, had never given her thoughts to politics, nor did she understand why hate and bitterness waged with such deadly strife between the two portions of a country which she so dearly loved; but her husband decided for her, and, feeling that her life was only a part of his, she followed. And those were years fraught with agony--years that recorded suffering that aged more than time had power to accomplish; for over each battlefield brooded a great host of prayer--prayer born of love intensified, and of partings which would know only the meeting above; and the race schooled by those years grew, developed, lived, more than generations ordinarily experience in a whole lifetime.

Col. Arnaud won a soldier’s reputation, and the autumn of ‘64 found him, with his fine regiment, encamped a few miles below the Confederate capital. Madelaine soon followed him to Richmond, bringing her little family, her boy Kenneth and a baby daughter. The winter was very trying to this delicate woman, for the city was crowded with refugees from all parts of the Confederacy; every square inch was occupied, and therefore comfortable accommodations were impossible to find. Then the depreciated currency rendered the price of necessities almost fabulous, so that barely to live required great sacrifice and control. But the courageous wife and devoted mother gathered her little ones, and contentedly dwelt in one small room, happy to welcome her husband whenever his brief furloughs allowed him to spend a day with her. But the great culmination approached, and the troops that wore the tattered gray were soon to furl the cross of stars that had proudly waved over many a gallant fight; and on one cold wintry morning she heard the newsboys shout “Extra! extra!” and soon Franklin Street was echoing with news of the fierce battle below Richmond. Madelaine had not seen her husband for almost four weeks, and her heart sank as she listened. “I will get a paper,” she said, and, leaving her nurse with the children, she descended to the street to purchase one.

Poor young thing--she little realized how literally she had followed the Scriptures, for she had forsaken all things, and he, her brave husband, was all she had to cling to; and now--but she was too truly a woman for control, and she fainted when she read the cruel words that told of her husband’s fate. A night of horror followed, and the roll of the ambulance in the early gray of the next morning startled her from her troubled sleep. They, those of his brigade, in their faded gray bore him to the small chamber where his young wife waited, and pale and ghastly she saw him laid upon the bed, where he was soon to sleep the long pulseless sleep. All that glory could render to sweeten the pain of dying was offered, for the journals rang with the grand charge he had led, and his deeds of daring were as household words in the crowded Confederate capital. But the great edict had gone forth, and the priest of his church came to offer the last consolations.

“My own true wife,” and he summoned the bowed figure, the frail 369 girl-woman who knelt beside him. The sweet eyes were dim with tears, and the voice was tremulous with passionate grief. His left arm drew her to him, for the right was crushed and powerless. “I am about to ask a brave act from you, my darling; do you think that you can please me?”

“Ask me anything, Kenneth, only stay with me. Oh! do not leave me yet,” and burning tears blinded her.

“‘My ways are not thy ways, nor my thoughts thy thoughts’: do you remember these words, my own wife? And then--only a little while, when we shall meet where the for evermore will indeed be eternal! But not of this did I wish to speak, Elaine, but”--and he hesitated--“if my faith could be taught to my little ones?”

She did not reply at first, but, with one gaze of devoted, earnest love, she turned, and kneeling by his side, with the weak precious hand clasped within her own, she repeated: “And receive, O Lord, thy servant into thy holy church, for which her heart hungers.” And he answered, “Amen!”

But this was no sudden desire influenced by her devotion to her husband; for, six years before, when she had listened to the sweet vesper service, the latent life had wakened, and the slumber had seen sleep no more, but the message, “Wake to thy salvation!” electrified her soul, and her whole nature thrilled its amen there; since then she had been peculiarly situated, and shrank from provoking anger in her father, as she realized how very stern he could be when he felt himself aggrieved. But now her heart told her she must no longer hesitate, the great crisis asked for action, and she felt that all worldly considerations must be forgotten when her husband, and her own heart also, called for a decision which shaped her life. So she was baptized by the holy father beside the bed where her husband lay dying; and the priest’s voice was very tender as he welcomed this stricken daughter Christ had given to his fold.

Only a few days after, she laid her husband to rest beneath the poplars at “Holleywood,” where many of his comrades were lying; and then came the gloomy, stormy March, and the sad April when the snowy flag was folded, and it was during this season that the widowed mother was received into her husband’s church.

The war had closed, and we all remember the fearful wreck that followed when Madelaine Arnaud found herself battling with the grim wolf whose shadow darkened her door. Her husband’s fortune was all gone, and the delicate, dependent woman felt that she had but little to hope for from her father; still she would not believe that he could entirely forsake her, even though she had become a member of the church his soul abhorred. So she wrote in her extremity and asked for advice. Many anxious days and nights passed, and no letter came; a fortnight intervened, when, one morning, she opened the envelope handed to her by the postman, and read:

“You have chosen your way in life, and, when you forsook your
father’s faith, he also separated from one who had joined herself
to idols. I enclose all that you may ever claim from me.
“THOMAS STANFIELD.”

She found enclosed the last note written by her mother, only a few hours before her death, and a silver crucifix, with the name “Madelaine Crécy, La.,” inscribed on the back or flat side of the cross.

She was very young to be left so entirely alone, for she was not yet twenty-five, and two children depended on her for support. What could 370 she do, and how must she act? In her agony, she cried, “Save me, O Father, for without thine aid I am lost!” Then the crucifix fell from her letter, and, clasping it, she drew her boy to her, and, kneeling, prayed: “Lord, thy enemies and mine have risen up against me: I therefore cast myself at thy feet to implore thy succor.”

The soft eyes of the little one gazed into her own, and, nestling closer, he asked:

“What makes mamma so sad?”

There are seasons in life when suffering is too great for expression, when tears refuse relief, and the overcharged heart, paralyzed by pain, seems incapable of pulsation. Then even speech fails; and the poor, desolate woman only pressed her child closer, and appealed to her God for protection.

Thus days passed, and she seemed unable to act, for at the South all was poverty and desolation, while she dared not anticipate what awaited her in New York. But the few dollars were growing less, and her children required food, so she decided to try the great city, and thither with her faithful nurse she journeyed. Her mother’s note gave her strength, and she often re-read the faint tracery on the faded paper.

“For, my darling child” (the note read), “should you ever wander
into the dear fold of your mother’s church, feel always that my
blessing will rest upon you, and though I may not live to guard
you, yet my prayer will be then as it is now for God to be with
you.
“MADELAINE CRECY STANFIELD.”

And though she did feel crushed and desolate on that stormy September evening which found her in the great city, still a strength came to her which she had never known, and she felt that God would protect her. Through the crowd at the depot she wended her way, and thence in the midst of a pouring rain to a cheap boarding-house, where she passed the night. The next morning she met an old servant who had known her as a child, and, with tears streaming from the old eyes, she took her to a small but respectable house in the town-part of the city, where she rented two rooms, and commenced her new life. A touching sight it was to see her in her sad mourning dress, she so fair and fragile, yet feeling that three depended upon her exertions, she rose to the emergency, and determined to succeed, or die in the service. She had brought a letter to a priest of her church, and to him she applied. He was very kind, and promised to do all that he could, but at the same time told her that pupils were not easily obtained, and recommended her to watch the newspapers. And she did search the journals, devoting herself to answering advertisements, but, save a few questionable replies, nothing came of this attempt. Meantime she began to feel the pinchings of want, and ventured to try sewing, but how was she to obtain work? “Go yourself, my dear young mistress,” said the good old negress--“go yourself; and may de kind Lord bless you!” And, shrinking and nervous, she applied to a merchant down-town. She could scarcely find words for her request, but her pale face appealed, and she bore away her parcel. Tireless were her continued efforts, and all through snow and ice she persevered in her work. “God will help her!” the dying mother had said, and through the darkness of her life’s storm she tried to comfort herself with this assurance.

It was very hard to realize that her father accumulated useless 371 thousands and lived in princely style at the other end of the city, while, only because she believed in her mother’s faith, she must suffer and toil with her little ones, needing comfort, and often even bread. Then the old man died, and, ere he died, the scene with which this story opens shamed his last hours.

But the exposure of three winters told on this delicate woman, and, when she felt her strength waning, all the horrors of starvation frightened her; for she knew that there were none to help her. She had moved still lower down-town, and into a smaller room, and there, with her faithful nurse, she endured life. But then there came a time when, though the will is strong to do, the physique fails to support, and the brave heart, struggling to conquer, feels despair steeling its vitals, and thus it was with Madelaine. The autumn of 1867 set in early, and November was cold and cruel to the poor. She, weaker than she had been, felt her slight unheeded cough increase, and, when December came, was too ill for any exertion. Bitterly the winter opened, snow covered the city, the wind keen and merciless swept the island, and thus the Christmas week found her with the little ones dependent, and she utterly helpless. The last penny had been expended, and the children were wailing with hunger.

Kenneth had looked into her own tearful eyes, and whispered, “Darling mamma, I will pray to Our Lady, and she will ask God to help you.” She only kissed her brave, trustful child, but had no strength for utterance. So, when the chill night wrapped the city and darkened the gloomy chamber, the child picked up his mother’s rosary, and, throwing it around his throat, held the crucifix in his infant hands, and, kneeling beside his mother’s low, poor bed, pleaded that the blessed Virgin would be kind to his dear mamma; and then the sweet child went to sleep murmuring Our Lady’s name.

The dawn was fast breaking over the city when the child kissed her, and said, “She has heard my prayer, mamma, for I dreamed that a beautiful angel like the picture in your prayer-book came to me, and said, ‘God will help her!’--and does not that mean you, mamma?”

“I hope that our kind Father will help us, my darling; therefore we must try to deserve his help.”

“Oh! he will help you, mamma, and I will help you, too.”

The day wore away, the last slice had been divided, and there was literally nothing else in the house. Hunger, starvation, was before them, and God, only God, could help them.

The snow fell heavily, the wind blew, and even the elements seemed warring against her, for she had not even fuel to keep off the cold.

Two o’clock chimed from Trinity, and, turning, she missed Kenneth. He was now eight years old, and often went out alone, but, with an instinct plainer than words, her heart rose to warn her of danger.

Three, four, five o’clock came, but still the child did not return. The lamps glared in the dark streets, and the night seemed too cold for human life--when--crash! a shriek, and a pair of horses dashed madly down the streets, throwing the occupants of the coach senseless upon the sidewalk. A crowd soon gathered, and bore the crushed and suffering man into the gloomy room where the sick woman lay. Her room opened on the street, and so they laid him on the small bed where the nurse slept.

“Bring a light,” sounded a gruff voice. 372

“Don’t you see dat de poor chile has no light for herself? Stonishing de fools dat libs in dese parts!”

A kind voice asked, “Is there no money? Take this and buy a candle.” The speaker was a shabbily-dressed man, but the whole aspect showed that he had known better days. He remained with the injured man, and while they go to find a light I leave them...

The snow was falling in great white feathery flakes, covering the dark alleys and darker tenements with its soft downy covering, and the little ragged, barefooted gamins of the great city were shrieking and screaming with delight; but not to build mimic forts or to join the army of snow-ballers did our little wanderer pause. “Mamma shall have some money,” he said, “and I will begin to work for it, so I will go to the streets where the fine houses are, and there the men will give me work.” Only eight years old was this little soldier in the grand army, but his noble face was radiant with the workings of his soul, which no poverty could injure. His little clothes were patched and scanty, and his poor little frozen toes came through the holes in his worn shoes; but the eyes shone with a light that could not be dimmed, and the firmly-set lips told that he was quite determined to do his best on that afternoon. At first he shrank from the cutting wind that swept from the East River, but, with hands in his pockets and cap pulled down, he ran on till he came to Broadway. Crowded with the happy crowd of the vast metropolis, the great highway was gay with bright faces on this eve of the feast of joy. Windows bright with presents for the favored children of fortune, shops thronged by smiling mothers eager to gratify their pampered darlings, and child-infant as he was, the little one paused to look at the pretty toys; but tears filled the large blue eyes, and he said, “Oh! I can’t look at these things, for poor mamma is sick and wants food.” At that moment, a gentleman passed, and the child went up and pulled his warm overcoat, “Will you give me some work, sir?” But the creature, a fashionable young fop in tights, shook him off, and passed on. Then came another, this time a respectable gray-haired worthy, and, running in front, the same appealing voice asked the same question. But the successful merchant, hurrying home, was intent upon some new speculation, and, suddenly disturbed, was not very amiable, as he replied, “Be off, you little vagabond!”

This time the policeman came up, and taking him by the arm gruffly ordered him to move on. And thus, on the eve of this blessed festival, when the great city joyed in each household, there was no grain for this wee waif, no crumb for the little estray, who was struggling against the power of the ebb which fate had sent to test his strength for the hereafter. On, on past the Fifth Avenue Hotel, through Madison Square, glancing at the glittering icicles or gleaming snow-drifts, shivering over the frozen pavements, on he travelled, faintly trying for that which seemed for ever denied to him.

“_I will_ find it for her,” he said, “for the beautiful angel, our Holy Mother, told me that she should be taken care of. I see her now far up in the clouds.” And up in the leaden sky, far beyond the pure, beautiful flakes, he gazed, half-hoping that the Mother of Christ would smile on him again. And did she not even then hover over the young boy-warrior? Did she not pray that he, too, might be strengthened 373 in this hard fight which his infant powers essayed? _Adjuvabit eam Deus_![83] the dying mother had prayed, and his promises would not fail. At last, far up the avenue, when the cold, shadowy twilight stole on the great city, he paused before a stately mansion. Curtains of silk and costly lace draped the windows, and liveried servants were sitting on the box of the handsome coach awaiting the master’s coming. Then the heavy door of massive bronze opened, and the master slowly descended the broad steps.

“Oh! you will help me, won’t you? Please give me some work, for I want to earn money for my mother!”

“Send that little beggar away,” was the irritable rebuff, and the footman flung him aside, not heeding where he fell. The carriage rolled away, and no thought was given to the small human bundle, roughly hurled from the rich man’s path. Then night darkened over the city, and the stars, God’s eternal sentinels, guarded earth as they had done eighteen centuries before when they watched the birth of the incarnate God. And beneath the same shimmering light the boy-warrior lay, all worsted in the strife, as thousands had sunk before, and all unconscious of the cruel hearts that still pulsed on. The torn little cap had fallen off, and the fair golden curls shaded the pale, childish face, turned upward as if in appeal to the Blessed Mother he had seen in his dreams. Was she watching still, and did her kind eyes see the crucifix clutched in the poor cold hands--the crucifix with the dead Christ, whose birth the morrow would celebrate? But the soft feathery flakes fell steadily on, covering the sweet face of the little one. Ah! God of infinite love and goodness, will the great army with the ranks of sin, and greed, and lust, prosper and thrive and live, while this young soldier, this infant of purest soul and lion heart, lies all unheeded, dying, the victim of cruelty and selfish forgetfulness?

But see--a policeman tramps near, and he comes with stalwart tread, swinging his burly arms, and clapping his gigantic hands to keep the fingers from freezing, for verily death seems to breathe out in the stealthy, deadening cold. Bravely he glances with searching look up and down the broad avenue, then pauses suddenly by the side of the obstruction just without the pavement.

“God and his holy saints forsake me, if this same bundle ain’t a child! Ugh! but it’s an ugly night for this small specimen to be left here! But come, let’s see, my little man,” and he tried to move him. “St. Patrick save me! if I ain’t afraid that he’ll never feel again!” And he dropped the little arm he held, and the crucifix, falling, lay dark against the glittering snow. The sight of the cross at once touched the stout Irishman, and this sturdy six-footed son of the Green Isle, this huge guardian of the great city, gathered the stray lamb to his bosom tenderly, pityingly, as its own mother, and bore it to the station-house. And, full of the warm impulse of his race, he chafed the poor little hands, and lingered by the pallet on which he lay, till great tears fell from eyes that had not seldom looked unmoved on the misery of the metropolis. He raised the child’s crucifix to his lips, and though he hurriedly summoned a physician, he muttered, “Poor little lamb, if he does come back to life, it will only keep an angel longer from Our Lady’s home!”

The man returned to his duty, and hours passed before he was relieved, but ere he returned to his own home, and the young wife waiting him, 374 he went back to the station-house to look after “the pretty young one” who had died with the cross in his hand; for he fully expected to find him dead on his return.

“We have had hard work to bring him back, Murphy,” said the doctor, as the man walked up to the child. “Only five minutes more, and the cold would have reached the little heart, which was losing all sensation. We have had a time of it, and he has just fallen asleep. These are what we found on him. The card was fastened to his worn jacket, and the crucifix has also a name engraved.” And picking up the card from the table the policeman read, “Kenneth Arnaud, 312 East ---- Street.” On the back of the silver cross was the name, “Madelaine Crécy, August 15, 18--.”

“Poor little child! said the policeman. “I’ll take him home, for his house is near my own.”