CHAPTER VI.

THE MIDNIGHT RAID.

FOR some days—I think about ten—after the bishop's visitation everything went on in the usual train.

On one of these days, the superior received a letter from the bishop, which was speedily communicated to the whole family. His greatness wrote that having had our title and charter investigated by the proper authorities, he had discovered that not only was our community fully entitled to all the land and property that it held, but that it had an undoubted right to some hundreds of acres of very fertile meadow land, lying half a mile away, and at present occupied by the Count de Crequi.

"So we shall get back all that beautiful pasture where the grass grows so early," said Sister Eustachie, the oldest person in the house. "I remember, children, when ye had twenty-five cows in that meadow. Such butter and cheese as we made—but we had a great family then. Well, I hope I may see those lands restored to our holy patrimony."

"I would like to hope so too, sister, but I doubt it!" said Mother Prudentia. "The wolf of Crequi does not let go his prey so easily. For myself, I shall be thankful if we are left to go quietly on our way, as we are doing at present."

I have never said anything about our priest and confessor. He was a middle-aged man, looking old from his white hair, but very hale and active. He lived by himself in a little house in the orchard, from which a sort of arbor, covered with vines, led to the church. He was a kind-hearted, easy-going man, very charitable and self-denying, save in the matter of snuff, of which he took a great deal. He was very fond of his garden, in which he worked early and late.

Amabel and I liked him because he spoke English very well, having once been confessor to a noble family in England. Only for him, I don't know but we should have forgotten our mother tongue entirely; but he used to exercise us in it, making us read to him sometimes, in an English Thomas-à-Kempis he had, sometimes in an English translation from the Vulgate. Oh! How I used to wish I could get that book into my own hands; but the good father guarded it jealously, not allowing us even to turn over a leaf for ourselves. We used to read Psalms and bits of the Gospels, and Old Testament stories, which he picked out for us.

I remember reading in this way about the widow's son of Nain. When I had finished, the priest paused a moment, and then said, reverently:

"My Lucy, do you think of what you read?"

"Yes, my father; I think of it a great deal," I answered, which was quite true.

"But do you make it real to you? Think, for instance, about this story which we have just finished. Think how that poor mother must have dreaded the return to her lonely house; the sitting down to her lonely table, and living on day after day without her son."

"And then how different it all was from what she expected!" said Amabel, musingly. "I should think she would hardly have known how to believe it. She must have felt as if his sickness and death were all a dream."

"And the holy Magdalene after her brother was restored!" said I. (Roman Catholics believe that Mary Magdalene, and the woman who was a sinner, who anointed our Lord's feet, were one and the same person, though there seems to us little or no ground in the scripture for such an idea.) "They were really people, were they not, and felt as we should do?"

"Exactly, my daughter. That is what I wish you to consider. People lose half the benefit of the examples of the holy saints and martyrs, because they do not consider them to have been of the same flesh and blood as themselves."

I have been obliged to the good father all my life for this idea, and especially since I have myself had the instructing of children in the truths of religion. But this is by the way.

Besides being a famous gardener, Father Brousseau had a competent knowledge of surgery and medicine, and made himself very useful in prescribing for the poor people round us. His medicines were generally such as our pharmacy at the convent could provide, especially a bitter cordial, made of orange peel, chamomile, and some of the aromatic herbs with which that country abounds. I have the recipe for this cordial, which I have helped to distil by the gallon. It is excellent for ague and consumption.

It was this medical knowledge of our confessor's which made him a welcome visitor at the Chateau de Crequi, even after the count had quarrelled with our superior. Madame de Crequi was a confirmed invalid, suffering terrible pain and distress at times, from some trouble in her breast. She had had endless doctors who had done her no good but rather harm, and in her despair, hearing of our confessor's gifts in that line, she sent for him. He was, happily, able greatly to alleviate her present suffering, though he told her frankly that there was no cure possible; and he had thus made the poor lady his friend. He had also cured the count's chaplain from a fever which threatened his life.

One day, it happened that the priest was sent for in great haste to see a favorite maid of the countess, who was taken suddenly and violently ill. (I learned all this long afterward, for of course I was not told it at the time.) He returned in the afternoon, and we saw him going in a great hurry to the superior's apartment.

In about half an hour, Mother Prudentia came out, looking a good deal excited, and summoned the whole family to a conference. It was in recreation time, I remember, and we were almost all busy in capturing a vagrant brood of half-grown chickens, which had escaped from their proper quarters, as it seemed, for the express purpose of scratching up a newly planted bed of salad. We were in a great frolic over the chase, for nuns are like children in their hours of recreation—a little thing serves to amuse them. It was therefore with considerable surprise that we obeyed the summons to the superior's presence.

We found the lady pale and evidently much disturbed, though she preserved her usual calmness of voice and demeanor. In a few words, she told us of the danger that was impending over us. She had received sure intelligence that the convent was to be attacked that very night by a band of robbers, pillaged and perhaps burned to the ground.

Even the strict habits of convent discipline could not repress a universal cry of dismay from the sisterhood; but I must say, that after the first alarm, they all behaved wonderfully well. The Reverend Mother raised her hand to impose silence, and was at once obeyed.

"We have no means of defending ourselves, and no time to send to the Bishop for assistance before our foes will be upon us!" said she. "I have taken council with our Reverend Father, and he agrees with me, that our only chance of safety is, to take refuge in the vaults under the old part of the house."

She paused a moment, and some of the sisters looked at each other as if the prospect of spending the night in the vaults was almost as dreadful as that of the robbers themselves.

"The buildings above these vaults are solid and there is little in them to burn," continued the Superior. "So that even should the house be set on fire, we may hope to escape—and the caverns themselves are such, that should the entrance to them be discovered, no one could find our hiding place without the clue; that clue is known at present only to Mother Assistant and myself. Let us then hasten to convey to this place of safety all our most precious treasures, all the sacred vessels and ornaments; and enough of food and lights to serve us if needful for several days; of water there is an abundant supply. Let us all be calm and collected, and let each one obey orders implicitly and without any questions."

She then allotted to each her part. Sister Lazarus with two assistants were to prepare and carry to a certain place a supply of such provisions as would keep the best, and afford the most nourishment in a small compass. I remember, in the midst of all our consternation, smiling at the lamentations of the good sister, over certain delicious creams which had been prepared for the supper-table—that being a feast day.

"But the robbers shall not have them at any rate!" said she with decision. "Here pussy!" And she set down the dish of cream which she held, and which the kitchen cat and her young family lapped up with great satisfaction and much purring.

"Poor little dears, they little know what is before them!" said Sister Lazarus, wiping the tears from her eyes, as she regarded the kittens, which having finished their feast, were licking the stray drops from each other's paws and noses. "I mean to shut them all out in the garden and that will give them a chance. Take care and not shake that basket, Sister! There are some bottles of wine in it and a jug of milk for the children; here, little ones, put these cakes in your pockets."

Grow as we might, we were still the children to dear Sister Lazarus.

The Church was not to be dismantled till after dark, that no suspicions need be awakened. I could not but wonder whether there were any spies among the few peasants who came to vespers. I could not but notice an old woman; she was very specially devout, and when the service was ended, she approached Mother Bursar and whiningly begged a night's lodging.

"I do not think we can keep you on account of the dangerous infectious fever that we have in the house!" said Mother Bursar, telling this outrageous fib doubtless with a clean conscience, as it was for the good of the Church. "But if you choose to risk it, I will ask Mother Superior."

But the old woman had no mind for a lodging under such circumstances and took herself off, closely watched by Mother Bursar from the church door.

"That is an odd-looking woman!" said I. "See how strongly she walks now, though she pretended to be so feeble."

"She is no more a woman than you are!" said Mother Bursar indignantly. "It is that very Jean Dôle to whom I gave a warm pair of hose only last winter. Did I not know him on the instant? I almost wish I had given him a lodging, and locked him up in the Knight's tower; but it is better as it is. Now my children we must work fast—there is no time to lose! Here, Lucille, help me fold these cloths."

"But Jean Dôle is in the employ of the Count!" said I, working while I talked and finding, despite the imminent danger, a certain enjoyment in the bustle. "Can he be, also, in the employ of the robbers?"

"Robbers!" said Mother Bursar contemptuously. "We know where the robbers come from. Take care, child, fold that straight. Perhaps they will find themselves outwitted after all."

By nine o'clock, the principal treasures of the Church—the great silver vases, the candlesticks, and images, and so forth, were all removed to the lower vestibule; and carried from thence to safe hiding places known to Mother Superior and Mother Prudentia.

Then the sisters were assembled in the community-room, for what we all felt might be the last time. Mother Superior addressed a few words to us, exhorting us to firmness, constancy, and trust, and we all kissed her hand and each other. The priest entered, bearing the host, in its magnificent receptacle, blazing with jewels, and we all prostrated ourselves before it. Then he passed out of the room, and we followed in order as in an ordinary procession; we went through the upper hall and descended the great stairs to the lower floor.

Then instead of seeking the door by which Amabel and myself had descended to the vaults, we went down to the basement by a staircase of which I had never, till then, known the existence. So true it is, as I have said before, that one may live in a convent a long time, yes, even for many years, and yet know very little about it. We passed through a long hall, with doors opening here and there, and then there was a pause, while Mother Prudentia unlocked and opened a massive door, the existence of which I should never have suspected, for it looked exactly like a piece of the wall. Through this we passed one by one, and it was then closed after us.

The lights were now trimmed anew and lanterns distributed among us. We were warned to follow exactly, and not to look either to right or left, but to keep our eyes fixed on our leader. Why, I don't know, unless that our minds might not be distracted by the sight of the labyrinth we were threading. At last we reached the end of our dismal journey. We found ourselves in a kind of suite of apartments, drier and more commodious than could have been expected in such a place. There must have been some communication with the outer world, for the air, though damp and chill, was not foul nor oppressive.

In the first vault were stored our provisions, clothes, and other such matters which we had saved. In the next were beds hastily made of straw mattresses and all the warm coverings that could be mustered. A little side-room was fitted up as a chapel, with an altar, on which was placed the usual furniture, while a small lamp hung before it. On this altar the priest deposited the host. It was time for our last evening service, and we went through it as usual, though it must be confessed that some of the sweet voices quivered a little as they chanted the responses. It was not till now that we observed one of our number to be missing.

"Where is Sister Filomena?" asked two or three voices.

"She is in a place of safety, or so I trust," answered the Superior calmly. "Pray for her, my sisters."

We took this for a hint that we were to ask no more questions, but we wondered all the more. Sister Filomena was the one of whom I have spoken before as being so very ugly. She was tall and boney, with particularly large hands and feet, and a masculine walk. She had a decided beard, and owing to some disease, I suppose, her face, and particularly her nose, were as red as an old toper's. She was a widow of some years standing when she took the vows, and before her conversion, she had lived much in the gay world of Toulon, where, despite her ugliness, she had been a great favorite, and had maintained a very popular salon.

Sister Lazarus had caused to be transported to the vault a little earthen-ware furnace for charcoal, such as are much used in France. This she lighted, and served us each with a famous cup of chocolate—a luxury never enjoyed by us except on very grand feast days. I think smells are more powerful in awakening old associations than anything else. The smell of a fresh cup of chocolate always brings that scene vividly before me—the dimly-burning shaded lights, which made our pale faces doubly ghastly in appearance—the damp walls of whitish grey rock—the little chapel with its ornaments glittering as the tapers flared a little—I can see all this, and hear the soft drop and splash of water, regular almost as the ticking of a clock, which fell on our ears, and now and then a curious moaning sound coming no one knew from whence.

"What is that?" said one of the sisters rather fearfully, as a louder moan than usual made itself felt rather than heard.

"It is a sound always heard in these vaults," replied the Superior.

"I used to hear in my day that it was the spirits of the poor souls that the old heathen imprisoned here and left to starve," said Sister Eustachie, who was very old and childish.

"You don't think it is that, do you, Reverend Mother?" asked one of the nuns rather timidly.

"No, my child, I think it is only the wind which finds entrance somewhere and cannot get out again, or some escape of imprisoned gas from the earth. Whatever it may be, it is but a sound," answered the Superior. "Let me beg of you, not to disturb your minds with idle fears. Let all lie down and rest while it is possible. Mother Assistant and myself will watch before the Holy Sacrament."

I had no wish to lie down, nor, as I think, had any of the others, but in a convent, one learns to obey without a word—not so bad a lesson either, where young persons are concerned. So we lay down on our straw beds and covered ourselves as warmly as we could, and, despite their fears, I heard some of the nuns snoring in five minutes' time.

I thought I should never go to sleep, but the sound of the falling water, the softly murmuring voices of the priest and the two mothers saying the litanies, and the gentle swaying of the suspended lamp lulled me at last into a slumber. I dreamed that I was trying to reach something from the upper shelf of a certain dark storeroom cupboard, when some one violently slammed the door on me. The noise awoke me with a start.

All the sisters were on their feet in an instant, but the gesture of the abbess imposed silence, and not a word was said.

We heard a shout of—"Open in the king's name—" And then a furious attack upon the great gate which led from the outer court into the garden. It sounded frightfully near. In a moment it fell, and we could hear the footsteps of our enemies, as it seemed, over our heads. They may have been so for ought I know.

We were all on our knees by this time before the little altar—some on their faces. Only the Superior stood erect and calm.

The noise partially died away—I suppose while the ruffians were searching for us. Then they gathered again in the court with every expression of anger and disappointment. We could hear every word that was said. They had evidently pushed off the cover of the old well, and one of them dropped a great stone into it. The noise which resounded through the vaults was awful beyond description.

"Our birds are flown!" said a voice. "And they have stripped their nest pretty completely."

"They are not flown—they have only gone to earth!" said another voice, which I thought I had heard before. "Follow me, and we will soon have them out."

In a few minutes we heard the noise of a door forced, and heavy, armed heels noisily descending. The sisters gathered closer around the superior.

"They have found the entrance under the great stairs," said the superior. "Keep perfectly still, and fear nothing, but pray for the souls of our enemies. They do but rush on their own destruction."

Mother Prudentia whispered a few words to the superior, and, receiving a nod in return, took up a lantern and glided away so suddenly that, though I was watching eagerly, I could not have told for my life which way she went.

There was evidently a good deal of hesitation among the enemy, for I heard the same voice proclaim loudly: "A purse of gold for the one who unearths the old cats. There! I see the gleam of a lantern even now."

It could have been but two or three minutes, before we heard a sudden splash, followed in a second by another and a horrible scream of mortal anguish, which echoed and re-echoed as if a hundred demons were mocking the drowning wretches. There was one half-strangled cry for help—a rush—and then all was still for a few minutes, till Mother Prudentia returned to us with her lantern, and her shoes covered with mud and slime.

"Two of them have fallen in—the only two who ventured to follow me!" said she. "I stepped aside, thinking that they would stop when they lost sight of me, but I suppose the gleam on the water deceived them. Poor wretches!"

There was an interval of silence, during which we all softly recited the prayer for souls in extremis.

"What are they doing now?" asked one of our number.

"They are setting fire to the buildings. Do you not smell the smoke?" said the priest. "But we have little to fear, even in that case. A storm has been gathering all day and is about to burst. Do you not hear the thunder? 'The Lord shall fight for us, and we will hold our peace.'"

I had heard what sounded like thunder two or three times, but there were so many noises that I had taken little heed to it. Now, however, came a tremendous crash, and a faint gleam of lightning showed what I had before suspected—that we were near some place which opened to the air—perhaps to the old well in the court, which would account for our hearing so plainly.

The rush of rain which followed must have at once extinguished the fires, and no doubt drove our enemies into the buildings for shelter. For a time, we heard nothing but the tremendous thunder and the rain. Then I began to be sensible of another sound, unlike anything, unless it be the rushing of a stream swollen by a torrent.

"What is that?" asked some one.

"Hush!" said the priest, imperatively.

We all listened. The sounds grew louder.

"They have digged a pit, and fallen into the midst of it themselves!" said the priest exultingly. "'In the snare that they laid privily is their foot taken.' Our friends have arrived, and we are saved."

In effect, we heard in a moment, a tremendous outcry, many shots fired, and other sounds which told us that a combat was going on. The tumult died away by degrees, but was renewed once or twice, as though the robbers were making a desperate defense. There was an interval of silence, and then a manly, cheerful voice called aloud, as it seemed, from the stairs:

"The reverend mothers and sisters may now come from their hiding places without fear. Their enemies are all prisoners in the hands of the king's troops. Laudate dominium."

I suppose this Latin phrase was a kind of watchword to let our superiors know that all was right. Anxious as we all were to escape from our prison, there was no haste. We arranged our dresses as decently as possible, for in a convent one learns to dress without the help of a mirror; the priest took up the Host, and, in procession as we descended, we emerged to the light of day—for it was now morning, and the sky was brightening toward sunrise. We found the court occupied by a company of soldiers, with a young officer in command, keeping guard over a number of prisoners. Several dead bodies were stretched out on the stones, and two or three wounded wretches were groaning among them.

Officers and men saluted reverently as the Host was borne past them, and all but those necessary to guard the prisoners, followed into the church. We took our places in the choir, and mass was said at the despoiled altar. Then, measures were taken for the care of the wounded. Two expired almost immediately, in the very act of confession; the other lingered a few days, and died, so Sister Baptista told me, very humble and penitent.

But what a sad sight was our poor house! Windows were dashed to pieces, furniture broken and destroyed in mere wantonness. Our beautiful garden was a trampled waste—even the great rose bush said to have been planted by the hands of Mother Angelique herself, and one of our greatest treasures, was hacked off at the roots.

"The wretches—the wicked sacrilegious villains!" exclaimed Sister Lazarus, bursting into tears as she came on the body of her favorite cat, and saw the poor kittens trying in vain to attract their mother's notice. "I can't help it, if it is wicked—I am glad they fell into the pool—I hope it was the very one that killed my cat—our cat I mean," added the sister, correcting herself, for in a convent it is a great sin to say that any thing is mine. "I made an act of forgiveness when I found my beautiful stew-pans all dashed to pieces, but such a sight as this is too much."

So saying she gathered the bereaved little kittens into her apron and carried them off to comfort them as she best could. One of our cows had been shot, as it seemed, in sheer wantonness; the other being shut in a cow-house at the bottom of the orchard had escaped.

It was only natural that a few tears should be shed over the destruction of pet plants and fowls and the general desolation, but there was no giving way to idle sorrow. All set to work with a will to put things in the best order possible, and so industrious were we, that by the next day when the bishop arrived, things had assumed something of their usual aspect.

But no pains of ours could restore vines and flowers, or set up the ruined fountain, or mend the beautiful and wonderful stained glass, whose fragments strewed the court, or bring our poor old dog and cow to life. The bishop brought with him a magistrate and other officers, and there was a great examination and perquisition about the affair, but I don't know how it was—the thing was hushed up after a while and nothing was done. Only the bishop paid two or three visits, and finally it was made known among us that before cold weather came, the community would be moved to a smaller but much more comfortable and secure house near Toulon.

I must not forget to say that Sister Filomena arrived in the train of the bishop, riding all by herself in a litter, and dressed in a brand new robe of quite another fashion from ours. We were surprised enough to see her, and still more to hear that it was she who had carried the news of our danger to Toulon.

"That is the advantage of being ugly you see, my sisters," said the good nun, laughing, as we pressed around to listen to her adventures. "In Marie's red petticoat and grey jacket, and mounted on the good father's mule, nobody thought me anything but a peasant carrying fowls to market. I had the good luck to meet, the very first thing, an Abbè whom I used to know when I was in the world. I could think of no better way than to make myself known to him, and he took me directly to the bishop's palace, where I told my story. His housekeeper found me some clothes, and I went at once to the Ursuline Convent, where they treated me like a princess, but you may guess I did not sleep for thinking of your danger, and wondering whether the soldiers would arrive in time."

"But why did not Father Brousseau go himself?" asked some one.

"What a wise question! Because they would have been on the watch for him, and would have known him at once; but no one suspected me."

"It was a dreadful thing to do!" said Sister Baptista. "Of course it was very good in you to sacrifice yourself, but I do think it was shocking."

"I suppose it was," said Sister Filomena; "and the worst of it is, I am afraid I enjoyed it after all."

That very day, we heard that the nephew and heir of the Count de Crequi with an attendant had fallen from the rocks while fishing, and that their bodies had been swept away by the waves and never found. A requiem was said for them in the church with all due solemnity, at which, however, none of the family were present. For my own part, remembering the voice I had heard and that fearful plunge into the water, I have little doubt that the bones of the young count and his follower lie at this moment under the black and slimy waters of that dreadful pool.

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