CHAPTER XX.

"YOU SHALL HAVE NO CHOICE."

I EXPECTED nothing less than to be taken at once to the Carmelite convent with which I had been threatened. I was therefore agreeably surprised when, on being led to the courtyard I found all my uncle's servants assembled, and his own travelling carriage waiting, with my aunt already seated in it. There were three vacant places, one of which I was desired to take, while my uncle placed himself in the other, and my aunt's gentlewoman took the fourth. There was a great deal of running back and forth for small packages which had been forgotten, a great deal of ordering and counter-ordering, of pulling at straps and examining of buckles; but at last all was ready, and we set out. My aunt had not spoken to me at all, but as we passed a fine house which was being newly repaired and decorated she broke out with—

"And to think, ungrateful girl, that all that might have been yours, and you must throw it all away for a whim!"

I made no answer, for there was nothing to be said.

"There is no use in talking further on that matter, madame," said my uncle. "Vevette has made her decision, and she must abide the consequences. Henceforth she will have no choice as to what she will do. All will be decided for her, and it is possible she may come to regret Monsieur de Luynes."

"That may well be, my uncle, since Monsieur de Luynes was a true friend, who did not expect to gain any hidden treasures by his kindness," I answered. "But I shall never regret having acted honorably by him, whatever happens."

My uncle bit his lip, as well he might, and I saw the waiting-woman look out of the window to hide a smile. She knew all about my uncle's Journey to Normandy, and, like others of her class, she enjoyed a hit at her betters.

"Be silent!" said my uncle sternly. "Nobody wishes to hear the sound of your voice. Speak only when you are spoken to."

I obeyed, and, indeed, I had no inclination to talk. The morning was beautiful, and the spring was just coming on, and, forlorn as it looked, I was delighted to see the open country once more, and to breathe an air not poisoned with the thousand and one smells—not to use a stronger word—of Paris. The king could indeed crush and impoverish his poor people to maintain his armies and his mistresses, but he could not hinder the wild flowers from blooming nor the birds from singing. My spirits rose insensibly, and I more than once caught myself on the point of breaking out into a song.

My uncle sat back in the corner and said nothing. My aunt kept up a perpetual prattle with Susanne, now bewailing her banishment from Paris and the court, now remarking upon this or that fine lady, and listening to the tittle-tattle in which Susanne was a proficient.

At last my uncle said he would ride on horseback a while, so his groom was called up with the spare horse, and we women were left to ourselves. Then my aunt fell upon me, and such a rating as she gave me! I have heard English women scold, but I never heard any fishwoman equal my elegant, double-refined aunt, Madame de Fayrolles. She worked herself up into such a passion that she told a good deal more than she meant, and thus I learned that my Lord Stanton had returned a very short and sharp answer to Monsieur de Fayrolles' letter, absolutely refusing to let him have any of the property intrusted to him, and requiring that I should at once return to England.

So my friends had not quite forgotten or forsaken me. That was some comfort, but I dared not say so. My aunt went on, growing more and more excited, till she ended with—

"And when I thought at least I should have you to help me at Fayrolles, to draw patterns for my embroidery, and sing and read aloud to me, I cannot even enjoy that."

"But indeed, aunt, I will do anything for you—singing or reading, or whatever you please," I said soothingly, for I was afraid of one of her fits of nerves. "There is nothing in my power that I will not do for you if you will let me, at Fayrolles or anywhere else. You know we agreed to work chairs upon satin for the salon, and I have several patterns drawn already."

"Yes, but you won't be at Fayrolles!" said my aunt between her sobs. And then, catching a warning glance from Susanne, she said no more.

Then I was not to go to Fayrolles! What did they mean to do with me? To send me back to England? That was not likely, after what my uncle had said about my having no choice. Probably I should be placed in some country convent, where I should be out of reach of all help, whatever happened, and where no one would ever hear from me again. This was what I dreaded of all things. I had almost given up any belief in the faith I had lately professed, and the question occurred to me whether I ought not openly to confess the change which had come over me. I knew only too well what such a confession involved—either a life-long imprisonment or a horrible death—perhaps being left to perish by inches in some underground cell, amid rats and vermin. Such things happened all the time.

Worse even than that, I knew that many of the convents were sinks of iniquity—places of resort for idle young gentlemen and wickeder women, like that of Port Royal, which afterward passed through so many vicissitudes. I am very far from saying that they were all of this character, but a great many of them were so, even taking the accounts of Roman Catholics themselves.* A residence in such a community was no pleasant prospect.

* See Racine's "Memoirs of Port Royal." Letters of St. Francis de Sales, and almost any free-spoken memoirs of the time.

And was I, after all, ready to die for my faith? Had I indeed any assured faith to die for? Might not Father Martien be right after all? My mind was tossed upon a sea of doubt and conjecture, and for a time found no rest; but at last I was enabled to pray, and to cast myself, more completely than I had ever done before, upon the arms of mercy. I asked for light and help above all things, and light and help were given me, not all at once, but by degrees. I became sensible of a sweet calm and clearness of mind, in which I saw all things more plainly. I felt sure that my many sins had been forgiven and washed away, and that when the time came for action, I should have strength given me to act for the best.

I had plenty of time for my own thoughts, for my uncle soon reentered the carriage, and after that my aunt did not venture to speak to me again, though she talked at me whenever there was a chance. She was a woman who bore discomfort of any kind very ill, and the more weary she grew with her journey, the more unbearable grew her peevish fretfulness. At last my uncle was moved to speak sharply to her, whereupon she fell into one of her nervous fits, and I had to exert all my skill to keep her from throwing herself out of the carriage. With much expenditure of coaxing and soothing I got her quieted at last, and persuaded her to take some refreshment, after which she fell asleep.

I fancy my attentions softened her heart toward me, for she was much more kind to me during the rest of the day, and I thought even interceded for me with her husband; but if so it was without avail, and even increased my troubles.

For the whole of the next day I travelled with my former maid, Zelie, and the old woman I had spoken of. They understood my disgrace well enough, and did all in their power to make me feel it, treating me with the utmost insolence and neglect, so that at the inns where we stopped, I had the most wretched lodgings imaginable, and really went hungry while my jailers, for such they were, feasted upon dainties at my uncle's expense. In this, however, they overshot the mark and brought themselves into trouble. My uncle, remarking in the morning upon my extreme paleness, asked whether I was ill.

"No, monsieur," I answered, "I am not ill, but I am hungry. I have had not a morsel since yesterday noon but some crusts of mouldy black bread, which I could not have eaten if I had been starving."

Monsieur turned angrily upon Zelie, who stammered and denied and charged me with falsehood; but my uncle knew me well enough to believe what I said, and my face spoke for itself. I was once more removed to my aunt's carriage, and fared as she did, and the rest of the way was more comfortable. Susanne had always been friendly to me.

During my imprisonment, she had more than once smuggled comforts into my cell, and when we were alone together she spoke to me with kindness and pity. My aunt's heart evidently softened to me more and more, but my uncle was implacable. To cross him once was to make him an enemy forever; I had disappointed him in every way, and he meant to make me feel the full force of his displeasure.

I had gathered from the servants that our first destination was Marseilles. As we drew near that city, we passed company after company of unhappy wretches destined for the galleys, laboring along, chained together, and driven like cattle to the slaughter. Many of them were condemned for no crime but that of having attended a preaching, or prayed in their own families—that of being Protestants, in short—and these were linked oftentimes to the most atrocious criminals, whose society must have been harder to bear than their chains. But more than once or twice man's cruelty was turned to the praise of God, and the criminal was converted by the patience and the instructions of his fellow.

As we passed one of these sad cavalcades my uncle stopped the coach to ask some questions, and I was brought face to face with one I knew right well. It was an aged preacher who had long known my father, and had often been at our home in Normandy. I had no mind to have him recognize me, and I turned away my face to hide my overflowing tears. Monsieur did not at first recognize the old preacher, but the other knew him in a moment, and called him by name.

"What, Monsieur Morin, is this you!" said my uncle. "I thought you were dead!"

"I soon shall be," answered the old man calmly. "Happily for me, I am more than seventy years old, and my prison-doors must soon be opened. Then I shall receive my reward; but you—ah, Henri, my former pupil, whom I so loved, how will it be with you? Oh, repent, while there is yet time! There is mercy even for the denier and the apostate!"

For all answer, my uncle, transported with rage, lifted his cane and struck the old man a severe blow. The very criminals cried shame upon him, and the young officer in charge hastened to the spot, and with expressions of pity offered his own handkerchief to the poor old man, whose brow was cut and bleeding.

"Well," said my uncle, turning to me, and seeing, I suppose, what I thought, "how do you like the way your former friends are treated? How would you like to share their lot?"

"I would rather be that old man than you, monsieur!" I returned, on fire with indignation. "I would rather be the helpless prisoner than the coward that abuses him!"

"Coward!" repeated my uncle, white with rage.

"Dastard, if you like it better!" I returned, reckless of consequences. "To strike a helpless man is cowardly; to strike an old and feeble man is dastardly!"

Monsieur de Fayrolles, like others of his stamp, was easily put down when any one stood up to him. I have seen him fairly outfaced by his own valet. He muttered something between his teeth. MY aunt, who, to do her justice, was greatly shocked, put a little money into the old man's hand, and the carriage moved on.

We arrived at Marseilles about noon, and my heart bounded with joy as I saw in the harbor a ship with English colors. Could it be that I was to be sent back to England after all? I was soon undeceived. We drove through the town to a convent which stood by itself, surrounded as usual with a high wall. Here the carriage stopped. My uncle and aunt alighted, and were admitted by the portress, and I remained in the carriage with Susanne. A number of men who looked like carpenters were returning from their work, and passed us, glancing at the carriage as they did so.

"Here is another of the king's passenger birds!" I heard one of them say.

I was trying to think what he could mean, when a sort of overseer who was following the men looked at me, stopped, and called me by name. It was my foster-brother, David Sablot.

"Mademoiselle! Mademoiselle!" said Susanne.

"Ah, Susanne, it is my foster-brother, perhaps the last friend I shall over see," I pleaded. "Let me speak to him for but one moment."

"Speak quickly, then," said Susanne, and with that she turned her back to me and began looking out of the window.

"I thought you were safe in England, Vevette," said David, in English. "What brings you here?"

"My own folly and wickedness," I answered. "But I cannot tell you the story now. David, if you ever loved me, go, or send to Lord Stanton, at Stanton Court, near Biddeford, in Devonshire. Tell him you saw me here a prisoner. Watch what they do with me, and carry him word. Tell Andrew Corbet that I have always loved him, and always shall. But how are you here in safety?"

"I am of too much use for my master to spare me, and so he gives me protection," was the reply; "but it will not be for long. But what of my father and mother—of madame? Do you know anything?"

"Maman is in heaven. Your parents are at Tre Madoc, in Cornwall, living in comfort. My lord will tell you. David, have you a little Gospel?"

He took from an inner pocket a little thin, worn book, made for concealment—the Gospel of St. Luke.

"Give it me—I have none," said I, and he put it into my hand.

"Lucille," said I.

"I know nothing of her," was the sorrowful answer. "Since she left Sartilly I have heard once that she escaped, and again that she was dead. Depend upon me, Vevette!"

Then, as Susanne made a warning sign, he pressed my hand and passed on.

The convent gate was once more opened, and I was summoned to descend. I was led by a nun through a long passage, then along a cloister which bounded one side of the convent burial-place, and at last into the parlor, where sat my uncle and aunt. Behind the grating stood a lady in conventual dress, whom I judged to be the Superior. She looked like a fussy, important sort of personage, but she had a kind, motherly face. Behind her stood two other nuns, in the dress of the Ursulines.

"This is the young lady," said my uncle, presenting me to the Superior. "I trust she may be a credit to those friends who have exerted themselves to provide for her. As you have the king's letter and the other papers, reverend mother, it will not be needful for us to trespass longer on your valuable time."

So saying, and without a word of leave-taking, he took my aunt's hand and led her away.

"So you are the last!" said the Superior, addressing me not unkindly. "You do not look so very strong for a colonist, I must say; but since you have the king's own letter there is nothing to be said. What think you, my sister?" turning to the elderly woman who stood behind her.

"I think his Majesty is beside himself," answered the latter, with a bluntness which somehow surprised me while it made me like her. "She looks much fitter to help Sister Therese in the schoolroom, or Sister Veronique with her embroidery, than to rough it in a new country. Have you been ill, child?"

"No, madame," I answered, "but I am weary with my journey."

"You should say reverend mother," corrected the nun not ungently. "We do not keep worldly titles and family names here, like the ladies of the Sacred Heart. We are all mothers and sisters. Would it not be well, my mother, for this child to rest for a while before joining her companions for the voyage?"

"Yes, of course; you always know best, dear sister," answered the other lady. "Let her rest, and have a good supper."

"Stay where you are, child. There, sit down, and I will come to you presently," said the mother assistant, as I found she was.

I was very glad indeed to take a chair, and I remained alone for some minutes thinking over what I had heard, and puzzling myself to no purpose over the hints as to colonists and a new country which the Superior had thrown out. Before I had arrived at any conclusion, the mother assistant appeared at another door from the one I had entered, and bade me follow her. She conducted me along a gallery and to a cell, small indeed but clean, and by no means uncomfortable.

"You can remain here for this night, and I will send you some supper," said she. "To-morrow you will be introduced to your companions, and to the sisters who will have charge of you all. The vessel will not sail for several days, so you will have time to get well rested."

And she departed, leaving me more puzzled than ever. I found a small mail in my cell, and was glad to discover therein some changes of raiment, all very plain, and even coarse. There were also some books of devotion, a rosary, and a purse containing a small sum of money, besides a considerable package of biscuits, dried fruit, and comfits, which had evidently been thrust in after the mail was packed, probably by Susanne.

I changed my travelling-dress, bathed my face, and brushed the dust out of my hair. I would have given almost anything to open my Testament, but this I dared not do. I had hardly made myself ready when a nun entered with my supper, which was good, and arranged with neatness. There was even a cup of chocolate. The dishes were set out on my little table, and the nun, bidding me take my chocolate while it was fresh, departed and closed the door. Then indeed I did venture to draw forth my precious Gospel and read a few words—only a few—but they were like manna in the desert.

"And while he was yet a great way off, his father saw him."

That was all. It brought the whole to my mind. I was the prodigal who had left my father's house and wasted my substance, and now I was brought to the husks indeed. What could I do but to act like the poor spendthrift—arise and go to my father?

I heard a step in the gallery, and thrust my book into my bosom. The step passed, but I dared not take it out again just then; and, sitting down, I ate my supper with a good appetite.

"They mean to try what kindness can do in the first place," I mused. "I dare say the good sister thought these sugared apricots would be so many irresistible arguments. But what could she mean by what she said about colonists and a new country?"

All at once the explanation flashed across me with the force of certainty. I was to be sent out to Canada.

To make my meaning plain I must relate a little bit of history.

It is well-known that King Louis the Fourteenth took a deep interest in his colony of New France, in America. He concerned himself personally in all its affairs, public and private, and made all sorts of laws and regulations for its benefit. He was very desirous that the colonists should lead settled lives, instead of taking to the woods and living with and like the savages, as a great many of them would have preferred, to do and in fact did, in spite of him. He would have them marry and raise large families, and promised premiums in the shape of land, provisions, and so forth, to those who did so.

But where were the wives to come from? This also his Majesty provided, with the help of his ministers and of the Jesuits, who were deeply engaged in the scheme. He sent out whole ship-loads of young women under the care of certain devoted ladies and nuns, which women, on their arrival, were sorted out in different rooms, according to their quality—the peasant girls in one, the young ladies in another—and the bachelors were not only invited but required to choose wives from among their number, according to their degree. The young women themselves had no choice in the matter, except that the peasant girls were sometimes allowed to go out as servants in the families of such married people as were able to keep them, but the arrangement was not greatly approved.

This commerce was not now carried on quite so briskly as had been the case several years before, but a ship-load was still dispatched now and then. The girls mostly came from public institutions or from families of peasants overburdened with children, and I suppose in general found their condition improved by the change. The young ladies or demoiselles were usually the inconvenient relations of good families whom it was desirable to get rid of. I learned afterward from the Mother Superior, who did not object to a bit of gossip, that Monsieur de Fayrolles had represented me to the king as an illegitimate daughter of his brother, for whom he wished to provide; and I suppose he had made me a kind of peace-offering to his Majesty, knowing how much his heart was engaged in this scheme. The offering was accepted, but I do not know whether or not it answered the purpose, for which it was meant.

Strange to say, the thought of being thus sent out to Canada was rather a relief to my mind, after I had discovered that I was not to return to England. It was at least a respite. It gave room for something to happen. I knew that there were also English colonies in North America, and in my ignorance, thinking of that country as no larger than France or England, I conceived it might be possible to effect an escape to them. I had little notion of the vast forests and deserts, the wild beasts and wilder men which lay between New France and New England.

At all events I was now in kind hands—that was something. I had contrived to send word to my English friends, for that David would do my errand I had not a doubt. I resolved to make the best of present circumstances, to use what time I could call my own in meditation on all I had learned, and if at last I made up my mind definitely that the way of my parents was the true way, to confess my faith without fear of consequences. For it must be remembered that I was still in some sense unsettled in my belief. The arguments of Father Martien would recur to my mind, and I did not always see how to answer them. Still I was struggling toward the shining light at the head of the way, as Mr. John Bunyan hath it in his quaint parable, and the light grew more clear and the ground firmer under my feet at every effort.

When the sister came after my supper dishes she was evidently pleased to see that I had appreciated her dainties.

"You look better, child," she said kindly.

"I am better, thank you, sister," I answered. "I feel much refreshed."

"Why, that is well," said she. "The reverend mother says you need not attend the evening service, as you seem so much fatigued with your journey. She advises you to go early to rest, and to-morrow she will see and talk with you, and you shall be introduced to the holy mother who has charge of the expedition."

"When does the ship sail?" I ventured to ask, seeing I had guessed rightly.

"Some time next week, I believe, but I am not certain. I hope so, I am sure; for these girls turn the house upside down, and I must say that I don't think a marriage brokerage quite the business for nuns. But what am I saying?" and she crossed herself. "No doubt our superiors know best. My unlucky tongue is always getting me into trouble."

"Never mind," said I, seeing that she looked rather appealingly at me. "I am no tale-bearer, you may be sure. I dare say the young people are a great trouble, but I will try not to make more than I can help," I added, smiling.

"Oh, you-you are a young lady—that is plain to be seen. Where are you from?"

"From Normandy," I answered. "My foster-mother lived not very far from Granville."

"I have been there," said the nun; "I was in the hospital at Sartilly."

How I longed to ask about Lucille, but I dared not do so for fear of inconvenient questions.

"And have you ever travelled?" asked the nun, who was called, as she told me, Sister St. Stanislaus.

I replied that I had been in England, and had therefore crossed the Channel twice.

"And were you ill?"

"No, not at all," I answered.

"Mother Mary will be glad to hear that, for she Is always ill the whole voyage through. She has made it two or three times. There, I must not stay any longer. I will come in the morning to lead you to the chapel, and afterward to the Superior's apartment, where you will see Mother Mary of the Incarnation. * Then good-night, child. Rest well."

* Mother Mary of the Incarnation is a real historical personage, though I have taken a liberty with her in bringing her back to France at this time.—L. E. G.

I thanked the good sister, for whom I had already conceived a great regard, and she withdrew. I was glad enough to obey her recommendation and go to rest, for between fatigue and excitement I was fairly worn-out. The bed, though narrow and hard, was very clean, and smelled of lavender. I read in my Gospel as long as the fading light would allow, and then, carefully concealing it, I said my prayers and lay down, feeling greatly comforted and reassured, though I should have been puzzled to account for my state of mind. Certainly, my circumstances were not promising.

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