George Sand - "L'Uscoque"

Various - "Punch, Or The London Charivari, Vol. 101. July 4, 1891"

George Sand - "Gabriel"

George Robert Stow Mead - "Simon Magus"

Books: Book review: 'The Mercy Papers' and 'Downtown Owl'
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Book Review: The Horror, the Horror
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"Ah, madame!" cried Henri, "how little you understand my heart. It was
not, believe me, for the pleasure of holding you in my arms, or pressing
you to my heart, although for that favor I would sacrifice my life, but
that we ought to fly as quickly as the birds, and look at them, how they
fly!"

Indeed, in the scarcely dawning light were seen large numbers of curlews
and pigeons, traversing the air with a quick and frightened flight,
which, in the night, usually abandoned to the silent bat, looked strange
to the eye, and sounded sinister to the ear.

Diana did not reply, but rode on without turning her head. Her horse,
however, as well as that of Remy, was fatigued with their long journey,
and Henri, as he turned back each moment, saw that they could not keep
up with him.

"See, madame!" said he, "how my horse outstrips yours, and yet I am
holding him in with all my strength; for Heaven's sake, madame, while
there is yet time, if you will not ride with me, take my horse and leave
me yours."

"No, thank you, monsieur," replied she, in her usual calm voice.

"But, madame," cried Henri, in despair, "the water gains on us; do you
hear! do you hear?"

Indeed, a horrible crashing was now heard; it was the dyke of a
neighboring village giving way, to swell the inundation. Boards and
props had given way, a double row of stakes broke with a noise like
thunder, and the water, rushing over the ruins, began to invade an oak
wood, of which they saw the tops trembling, and heard the branches
cracking as though a flight of demons were passing under the leaves.

The uprooted trees knocking against the stakes, the wood of ruined
houses floating on the waters, the distant neighings and cries of horses
and men carried away by the inundation, formed a concert of sounds so
strange and gloomy that the terror which agitated Henri began to seize
also upon Diana. She spurred her horse, and he, as if he understood the
danger, redoubled his efforts. But the water gained on them, and before
ten minutes it was evident that it would reach them. Every instant Henri
turned and cried, "Quicker, madame! for pity's sake; the water comes;
here it is!"

It came, indeed, foaming and turbulent, carrying away like a feather the
house in which they had taken shelter; and majestic, immense, rolling
like a serpent, it arrived like a wall behind the horses of Remy and
Diana. Henri uttered a cry of terror, and turned on the water, as though
he would have fought it.

"You see you are lost!" screamed he. "Come, madame, perhaps there is
still time; come with me."

"No, monsieur," said she.

"In a minute it will be too late; look!" cried he.

Diana turned; the water was within fifty feet of her.

"Let my fate be accomplished," said she; "you, monsieur, fly."

Remy's horse, exhausted, fell, and could not rise again, despite the
efforts of his rider.

"Save her in spite of herself," cried Remy.

And at the same moment, as he disengaged himself from the stirrups, the
water passed over the head of the faithful servant. His mistress, at
this sight, uttered a terrible cry, and tried to jump off her horse to
perish with him. But Henri, seeing her intention, seized her round the
waist, and placing her before him, set off like an arrow.

"Remy! Remy!" cried she, extending her arms. A cry was the only answer.
Remy had come up to the surface, and, with the indomitable hope which
accompanies the dying man to the last, was swimming, sustained by a
beam. By his side came his horse, beating the water desperately with his
feet, while the water gained on Diana's horse, and some twenty feet in
front Henri and Diana flew on the third horse, which was half mad with
terror.

Remy scarcely regretted life, since he hoped that his loved mistress
would be saved.

"Adieu, madame!" cried he. "I go first to him who waits for us, to tell
him that you live for--"

He could not finish; a mountain of water rolled over his head.

"Remy! Remy!" cried the lady, "I wish to die with you. I will! monsieur,
I will go to him; in the name of God, I will!"

She pronounced these words with so much energy and angry authority, that
the young man unfolded his arms and let her slip to the ground, saying--

"Well, madame, we will all three die here together; it is a joy I had
not hoped for."

As he said these words he stopped his horse, and the water reached them
almost immediately; but, by a last effort of love, the young man kept
hold of Diana's arm as she stood on the ground. The flood rolled over
them. It was a sublime spectacle to see the sang-froid of the young man,
whose entire bust was raised above the water, while he sustained Diana
with one arm, and with the other guided the last efforts of his expiring
horse.

There was a moment of terrible struggle, during which the lady, upheld
by Henri, kept her head above water, while with his left hand he kept
off the floating wood and the corpses which would have struck against
them.

One of the bodies floating past sighed out, "Adieu, madame!"

"Heavens!" cried Henri, "it is Remy!" And without calculating the danger
of the additional weight, he seized him by his sleeve, drew him up, and
enabled him to breath freely. But the exhausted horse now sank in the
water to its neck, then to its eyes, and finally disappeared altogether.

"We must die," murmured Henri. "Madame, my life and soul belonged to
you."

As he spoke, he felt Remy slip from him, and he no longer tried to
retain him--it was useless. His only care was to sustain Diana above the
water, that she at least, might die the last, and that he might be able
to say to himself, in his last moments, that he had done his utmost to
save her. All at once, a joyful cry sounded at his side; he turned, and
saw Remy, who had found a boat, which had belonged to the little house
where they had taken shelter, and which the water had carried away.
Remy, who had regained his strength, thanks to Henri's assistance, had
seized it as it floated past. The oars were tied to it, and an iron hook
lay in the bottom. He held out the hook to Henri, who seized it, and
drawing Diana with him, raised her over his shoulders, and passed her to
Remy, and then climbed in himself. The first rays of the rising sun
showed them the plains inundated, and the boat swimming like an atom on
that ocean covered with wrecks. Toward the left rose a little hill,
completely surrounded by water, looking like an island in the midst of
the sea. Henri took the oars and rowed toward it, while Remy, with the
boat-hook, occupied himself in keeping off the beams and wrecks which
might have struck against them. Thanks to Henri's strength and Remy's
skill, they reached, or, rather, were thrown against, the hill. Remy
jumped out, and, seizing the chain, drew the boat toward him; Diana,
rising alone, followed him, and then Henri, who drew up the boat and
seated himself a little way from them. They were saved from the most
menacing danger, for the inundation, however strong, could never reach
to the summit of the hill. Below them they could see that great angry
waste of waters, which seemed inferior in power only to God himself;
and, by the increasing light, they perceived that it was covered with
the corpses of French soldiers.

Remy had a wound in his shoulder, where a floating beam had struck
against him; but Diana, thanks to Henri's protection, was free from all
injury, although she was cold and wet. At last they noticed in the
horizon, on the eastern side, something like fires burning on a height
which the water could not reach. As well as they could judge, they were
about a league off. Remy advanced to the point of the hill, and said
that he believed he saw a jetty advancing in a direct line toward the
fires. But they could see nothing clearly, and knew not well where they
were, for though day was dawning, it came cloudily and full of fog; had
it been clear and under a pure sky, they might have seen the town of
Mechlin, from which they were not more than two leagues distant.

"Well, M. le Comte," said Remy, "what do you think of those fires?"

"Those fires, which seem to you to announce a hospitable shelter, appear
to me to be full of danger."

"And why so?"

"Remy," said Henri, lowering his voice, "look at these corpses; they are
all French--there is not one Fleming; they announce to us a great
disaster. The dykes have been broken to finish the destruction of the
French army, if it has been conquered--to nullify the victory, if they
have been victors. Those fires are as likely to have been lighted by
enemies as by friends, and may be simply a ruse to draw fugitives to
destruction."

"Nevertheless, we cannot stay here; my mistress will die of cold and
hunger."

"You are right, Remy; remain here with madame, and I will go to the
jetty, and return to you with news."

"No, monsieur," said Diana, "you shall not expose yourself alone; we
have been saved together; we will live or die together. Remy, your arm.
I am ready."

Each word which she pronounced had so irresistible an accent of
authority that no one thought of disputing it. Henri bowed, and walked
first.

It was more calm; the jetty formed, with the hill, a kind of bay, where
the water slept. All three got into the little boat, which was once more
launched among the wrecks and floating bodies. A quarter of an hour
after, they touched the jetty. They tied the chain of the boat to a
tree, landed once more, walked along the jetty for nearly an hour, and
then arrived at a number of Flemish huts, among which, in a place
planted with lime trees, were two or three hundred soldiers sitting
round a fire, above whom floated the French flag. Suddenly a sentinel,
placed about one hundred feet from the bivouac, cried, "Qui vive?"

"France," replied Du Bouchage. Then, turning to Diana, he said, "Now,
madame, you are saved. I recognize the standard of the gendarmes of
Aunis, a corps in which I have many friends."

At the cry of the sentinel and the answer of the comte several gendarmes
ran to meet the new comers, doubly welcome, in the midst of this
terrible disaster, as survivors and compatriots. Henri was soon
recognized; he was eagerly questioned, and recounted the miraculous
manner in which he and his companions had escaped death. Remy and Diana
had sat down silently in a corner; but Henri fetched them and made them
come to the fire, for both were still dripping with water.

"Madame," said he, "you will be respected here as in your own house. I
have taken the liberty of calling you one of my relations."

And without waiting for the thanks of those whose lives he had saved, he
went away to rejoin the officers.

The gendarmes of Aunis, of whom our fugitives were claiming
hospitality, had retired in good order after the defeat and the sauve
qui peut of the chiefs. Whereever there is similarity of position and
sentiment, and the habit of living together, it is common to find
unanimity in execution as well as in thought. It had been so that night
with the gendarmes of Aunis; for seeing their chiefs abandon them, they
agreed together to draw their ranks closer, instead of breaking them.
They therefore put their horses to the gallop, and, under the conduct of
one of the ensigns, whom they loved for his bravery and respected for
his birth, they took the road to Brussels.

Like all the actors in this terrible scene, they saw the progress of the
inundation, and were pursued by the furious waters; but by good luck
found in this spot a position strong both against men and water. The
inhabitants, knowing themselves in safety, had not quitted their homes,
and had only sent off their women, children, and old men to Brussels;
therefore the gendarmes met with resistance when they arrived; but death
howled behind them, and they attacked like desperate men, triumphed over
all obstacles, lost ten men, but established the others, and turned out
the Flemings.

Such was the recital which Henri received from them.

"And the rest of the army?" asked he.

"Look," replied the ensign; "the corpses which pass each moment answer
your question."

"But--my brother," said Henri, in a choking voice.

"Alas! M. le Comte, we do not know. He fought like a lion, but he
survived the battle; as to the inundation I cannot say."

Henri shook his head sadly; then, after a minute's pause, said, "And the
duke?"

"Comte, the duke fled one of the first. He was mounted on a white horse,
with no spot but a black star on the forehead. Well, just now we saw the
horse pass among a mass of wrecks, the foot of a rider was caught in the
stirrup and was floating on the water."

"Great God!"

"Good heavens!" echoed Remy, who had drawn near and heard the tale.

"One of my men ventured down into the water and seized the reins of the
floating horse, and drew it up sufficiently to enable us to see the
white boot and gold spur that the duke wore. But the waters were rushing
past, and the man was forced to let go to save himself, and we saw no
more. We shall not even have the consolation of giving a Christian
burial to our prince."

"Dead! he also? the heir to the crown! What a misfortune!"

Remy turned to his mistress, and with an expression impossible to
describe, said,

"He is dead, madame, you see."

"I praise the Lord, who has spared us a crime," said she, raising her
eyes to heaven.

"Yes, but it prevents our vengeance."

"Vengeance only belongs to a man when God forgets."

"But you, yourself, comte," said the ensign to Henri, "what are you
about to do?"

The comte started. "I?" said he.

"Yes."

"I will wait here till my brother's body passes," replied he, gloomily,
"then I will try to draw him to land. You may be sure that if once I
hold him, I shall not let go."

Remy looked pityingly at the young man; but Diana heard nothing--she was
praying.




CHAPTER LXX.

TRANSFIGURATION.


After her prayer Diana rose so beautiful and radiant that the comte
uttered a cry of surprise and admiration. She appeared to be waking out
of a long sleep, of which the dreams had fatigued her and weighed upon
her mind; or rather, she was like the daughter of Jairus, called from
death and rising from her funeral couch, already purified and ready for
heaven. Awakening from her lethargy, she cast around her a glance so
sweet and gentle, that Henri began to believe he should see her feel for
his pain, and yield to a sentiment of gratitude and pity. While the
gendarmes, after their frugal repast, slept about among the ruins, while
Remy himself yielded to it, Henri came and sat down close to Diana, and
in a voice so low and sweet that it seemed a murmur of the breeze, said:

"Madame, you live. Oh! let me tell you all the joy which overflows my
heart when I see you here in safety, after having seen you on the
threshold of the tomb."

"It is true, monsieur," replied she; "I live through you, and I wish I
could say I was grateful."

"But, madame," replied Henri, with an immense effort, "if it is only
that you are restored to those you love?"

"What do you mean?"

"To those you are going to rejoin through so many perils."

"Monsieur, those I loved are dead! those I am going to rejoin are so
also."

"Oh, madame!" cried Henri, falling on his knees, "throw your eyes on
me--on me, who have suffered so much and loved so much. Oh, do not turn
away; you are young, and beautiful as the angels in heaven; read my
heart, which I open to you, and you will see that it contains not an
atom of that love that most men feel. You do not believe me? Examine the
past hours; which of them has given me joy, or even hope? yet I have
persevered. You made me weep; I devoured my tears. You made me suffer; I
hid my sufferings. You drove me to seek death, and I went to meet it
without a complaint. Even at this moment, when you turn away your head,
when each of my words, burning as they are, seems a drop of iced water
falling on your heart, my soul is full of you, and I live only because
you live. Just now, was I not ready to die with you? What have I asked
for? Nothing. Have I touched your hand? Never, but to draw you from a
mortal peril. I held you in my arms to draw you from the waves--nothing
more. All in me has been purified by the devouring fire of my love."

"Oh, monsieur! for pity's sake do not speak thus to me."

"Oh, in pity do not condemn me. He told me you loved no one; oh! repeat
to me this assurance; it is a singular favor for a man in love to ask to
be told that he is not loved, but I prefer to know that you are
insensible to all. Oh, madame, you who are the only adoration of my
life, reply to me."

In spite of Henri's prayers, a sigh was the only answer.

"You say nothing," continued the comte; "Remy at least had more pity for
me, for he tried to console him. Oh! I see you will not reply, because
you do not wish to tell me that you came to Flanders to rejoin some one
happier than I, and yet I am young, and am ready to die at your feet."

"M. le Comte," replied Diana, with majestic solemnity, "do not say to me
things fit only to be said to a woman; I belong to another world, and do
not live for this. Had I seen you less noble--less good--less generous,
had I not for you in the bottom of my heart the tender feeling of a
sister for a brother, I should say, 'Rise, comte, and do not importune
with love my ears, which hold it in horror.' But I do not say so, comte,
because I suffer in seeing you suffer. I say more; now that I know you,
I will take your hand and place it on my heart, and I will say to you
willingly, 'See, my heart beats no more; live near me, if you like, and
assist day by day, if such be your pleasure, at this painful execution
of a body which is being killed by the tortures of the soul;' but this
sacrifice, which you may accept as happiness--"

"Oh, yes!" cried Henri, eagerly.

"Well, this sacrifice I ought to forbid. This very day a change has
taken place in my life; I have no longer the right to lean on any human
arm--not even on the arm of that generous friend, that noble creature,
who lies there, and for a time finds the happiness of forgetfulness.
Alas! poor Remy," continued she, with the first change of tone that
Henri remarked in her voice, "your waking will also be sad; you do not
know the progress of my thought; you cannot read in my eyes that you
will soon be alone, and that alone I must go to God."

"What do you mean, madame? do you also wish to die?"

Remy, awakened by the cry of the young count, began to listen.

"You saw me pray, did you not?" said Diana.

"Yes," answered Henri.

"This prayer was my adieu to earth; the joy that you remarked on my
face--the joy that fills me even now, is the same you would see in me if
the angel of death were to come and say to me, 'Rise, Diana, and follow
me.'"

"Diana! Diana! now I know your name; Diana, cherished name!" murmured
the young man.

"Oh, silence!" cried she, "forget this name which escaped me; no living
person has the right to pierce my heart by pronouncing it."

"Oh! madame, do not tell me you are going to die."

"I do not say that," replied she in her grave voice; "I say that I am
about to quit this world of tears--of hatreds--of bad passions--of vile
interests and desires. I say that I have nothing left to do among the
creatures whom God created my fellow mortals; I have no more tears, no
more blood in my heart; no more thoughts--they are dead. I am a
worthless offering, for in renouncing the world I sacrifice nothing,
neither desires nor hopes; but such as I am I offer myself to my God,
and he will accept me--he who has made me suffer so much, and yet kept
me from sinking under it."

Remy, who had heard this, rose slowly, and said, "You abandon me?"

"For God," said Diana, raising her thin white hand to heaven.

"It is true," said Remy, sadly; and seizing her hand he pressed it to
his breast.

"Oh! what am I by these two hearts?" said Henri.

"You are," replied Diana, "the only human creature, except Remy, on whom
I have looked twice for years."

Henri knelt. "Thanks, madame," said he, "I bow to my destiny. You belong
to God; I cannot be jealous."

As he rose, they heard the sound of trumpets on the plain, from which
the water was rapidly disappearing. The gendarmes seized their arms and
were on horseback at once.

Henri listened. "Gentlemen," cried he, "those are the admiral's
trumpets; I know them. Oh, God! may they announce my brother!"

"You see that you still wish something, and still love something; why,
then, should you choose despair, like those who desire nothing--like
those who love no one?"

"A horse!" cried Henri; "who will lend me a horse?"

"But the water is still all around us," said the ensign.

"But you see that the plain is practicable; they must be advancing,
since we hear their trumpets."

"Mount to the top of the bank, M. le Comte, the sky is clear, perhaps
you will see."

Henri climbed up; the trumpets continued to sound at intervals, but were
seemingly stationary.




CHAPTER LXXI.

THE TWO BROTHERS.


A quarter of an hour after, Henri returned; he had seen a considerable
detachment of French troops intrenched on a hill at some distance.
Excepting a large ditch, which surrounded the place occupied by the
gendarmes of Aunis, the water had begun to disappear from the plain, the
natural slope of the ground in the immediate neighborhood making the
waters run toward the sea, and several points of earth, higher than the
rest, began to reappear. The slimy mud brought by the rolling waters had
covered the whole country, and it was a sad spectacle to see, as the
wind cleared the mist, a number of cavaliers stuck in the mud, and
trying vainly to reach either of the hills. From the other hill, on
which the flag of France waved, their cries of distress had been heard,
and that was why the trumpets had sounded. The gendarmes now sounded
their cornets, and were answered by guns in joyful recognition. About
eleven o'clock the sun appeared over this scene of desolation, drying
some parts of the plain, and rendering practicable a kind of road.
Henri, who tried it first, found that it led by a detour from where they
were to the opposite hill, and he believed that though his horse might
sink to a certain extent, he would not sink altogether. He therefore
determined to try it, and recommending Diana and Remy to the care of the
ensign, set off on his perilous way. At the same time as he started,
they could see a cavalier leave the opposite hill, and, like Henry, try
the road. All the soldiers seemed trying to stop him by their
supplications. The two men pursued their way courageously, and soon
perceived that their task was less difficult than had been feared. A
small stream of water, escaped from a broken aqueduct, washed over the
path, and little by little was clearing away the mud. The cavaliers were
within two hundred feet of each other.

"France!" cried the one who came from the opposite hill, at the same
time raising his hat, which had a white plume in it.

"Oh! it is you!" cried Henri, with a burst of joy.

"You, Henri! you, my brother!" cried the other.

And they set off as quickly as their horses could manage to go, and
soon, among the frantic acclamations of the spectators on each side,
embraced long and tenderly. Soon, all--gendarmes and light
horse--Huguenots and Catholics--rushed along the road, pioneered by the
two brothers. Soon the two camps were joined, and there, where they had
thought to find death, nearly 3,000 Frenchmen cried, "Thank God!" and
"Vive la France!"

"Gentlemen," said a Huguenot officer, "it is 'Long live the admiral,'
you should cry, for it is to M. de Joyeuse alone that we now owe the
happiness of embracing our countrymen."

Immense acclamations followed this speech. The two brothers talked for
some time, and then Joyeuse asked Henri if he had heard news of the
duke.

"It appears he is dead," replied Henri.

"Is that certain?"

"The gendarmes saw his horse drowned, and a rider, whose head was under
water, dragged by the stirrup."

"It has been a sad day for France," said Joyeuse. Then turning to his
men he said, "Come, gentlemen, let us not lose time. Once the waters
have retired we shall probably be attacked. Let us intrench ourselves
until the arrival of news and food."

"But, monseigneur," said a voice, "the horses have eaten nothing since
four o'clock yesterday, and are dying with hunger."

"We have corn in our encampment," said the ensign, "but what shall we do
for the men?"

"Oh!" said Joyeuse, "if there be corn, that is all I ask; the men must
live like the horses."

"Brother," said Henri, "I want a little conversation with you."

"Go back to your place; choose a lodging for me, and wait for me there."

Henri went back.

"We are now in the midst of an army," said he to Remy; "hide yourselves
in the lodging I will show you, and do not let madame be seen by any
one."

Remy installed himself with Diana in the lodging pointed out. About two
o'clock the Duc de Joyeuse entered with his trumpets blowing, lodged his
troops, and gave strict injunctions to prevent disorder. He distributed
barley to the men, and hay to the horses, and to the wounded some wine
and beer, which had been found in the cellars, and himself, in sight of
all, dined on a piece of black bread and a glass of water. Everywhere he
was received as a deliverer with cries of gratitude.