And now the sun had risen brightly on the morning which was to add another care to those which already burthened the shoulders of Henri Larochejaquelin. They all sat down together and ate their quiet breakfast in the parlour, to which a fortnight’s habitation had now accustomed them. Henri wore no bridal dress. He had on the uniform of a Vendean officer, and round his waist was fastened a white scarf with a black knot, the distinguishing mark which he now bore of his rank in the army as Commander-in-Chief. Marie de Lescure was dressed in white, but her dress was as simple and unadorned as it could be well made; no bride, young, beautiful, and noble was ever prepared for the altar with less costly care, with less attention to the generally acknowledged proprieties of hymeneal decoration. Agatha and Madame de Lescure had in no respect altered their usual attire. It may easily be understood that leaving their homes in the manner they had done, they had not brought with them a full wardrobe; and since their arrival in Laval, they had had more pressing cares than that of supplying it.
De Lescure was daily getting weaker; but still the weaker he got the less he suffered, and the more capable he became of assuming his accustomed benevolent demeanour and anxious care for others. Both he and his wife knew that he was approaching the term of his mortal sufferings; but others, and among them Henri was the most sanguine, still hoped that he would recover; and there certainly was nothing in his cheery manner On the morning of the wedding, to make any one think that such hopes were misplaced. The old Marquis was more sad and melancholy than he had used to be among his beloved birds and cherry trees at Durbellière; and, on this occasion, he was probably the saddest of the party, for he was the one who would have rejoiced the most that the wedding of his son should be an occasion of joy to relatives, servants, tenants, and the numerous neighbours among whom he had always lived with so much mutual affection.
The most singular figure of the whole party was Father Jerome, the Curé of St. Laud’s. He still wore the same long grey coat in which he was first introduced to the reader at Durbellière; which had since that time figured at Saumur and many another scene of blood and violence, and which we last saw when he was found by Madame de Lescure in the chapel at Genet. It had now been so patched and darned, that its oldest friends could not have recognized it. But Father Jerome still maintained that it was good enough for the ordinary run of his present daily duties, though he jocosely apologized to Marie for appearing, on such an occasion, in so mean a garment.
As soon as the breakfast was over, the table on which it had been eaten, was converted into a rude altar, and the ceremony was commenced. Jacques Chapeau and Annot, whose turn was immediately to follow, stood close up to the table, opposite to their master and mistress; but Michael Stein and his two sons, who of course were to be present at Annot’s marriage, and who had prepared to seat themselves on the stairs till their presence should be required, had also been invited to attend; and they now sat but very ill at their ease, on three chairs, in the very farthest corner of the room. Michael Stein, though chance had thrown him among the loyal Vendeans, had in his heart but little of that love and veneration for his immediate superiors, which was the strong and attractive point in the character of the people of Poitou. Though he had lived all his life in the now famous village of Echanbroignes, he had in his disposition, much of the stubborn self-dependence of the early republicans; and he did not relish his position, sitting in the background as a humble hanger-on in the family of a nobleman and an aristocrat. He was, however, unable to help himself; his sons were Vendeans; his daughter was just going to marry the confidential follower of the Vendean Commander-in-Chief; and he himself had been seen fighting for La Vendée: there he sat, therefore, quiet, though hardly happy, between his two stalwart sons, with his thin hair brushed over his forehead, and his huge swarthy hands crossed on his knees before him.
The marriage ceremonies were soon performed: and then Henri and Chapeau, each in their turn, led their brides from the altar; and all went on as quietly in the one room which they occupied, as though nothing beyond their daily occupations had occurred.
“God bless you, my children!” said the old Marquis, “this is but a sad wedding; but it is useless to regret the happy times which are gone, it seems for ever.”
“Not for ever, father,” said Marie, kissing the old man’s face, “Henri and I still look forward to having our wedding fete; perhaps in Paris—perhaps in dear La Vendée, when we shall once more be able to call our old homes our own; then we will make you, and Agatha, and Victorine, make up fivefold for all that has been omitted now. Will we not, Henri?”
Below stairs, Chapeau and Annot, wisely thinking that no time was like the present, endeavoured to be as gay as they would have been had they enjoyed their marriage-feast in the smith’s own cottage; one or two of Chapeau’s friends were asked on the occasion, and among them, Plume condescended to regale himself though the cheer was spread in the kitchen instead of in the parlour. Michael, now relieved from the presence of aristocracy, eat and drank himself into good humour; and even received, with grim complacency, the jokes of his Sons, who insisted on drinking to his health as a new recruit to the famous regiment which was drawn from the parish of Echanbroignes.
“Well, my girl, may heaven take care of you!” said he, kissing his daughter, “and of you too, Jacques,” and he extended the caress to his son-in-law. “I won’t say but what I wish you were a decent shoe-maker, or—”
“Oh, laws, father,” said Annot, “I’m sure I should never have had him, if he had been.”