CHAPTER XVII.
The warning announcement of some great effort on the part of the besieged, which Alain had given to Lemercier, was soon to be fulfilled.
For some days the principal thoroughfares were ominously lined with military convois. The loungers on the Boulevards stopped to gaze on the long defiles of troops and cannons, commissariat conveyances, and, saddening accompaniments! the vehicles of various ambulances for the removal of the wounded. With what glee the loungers said to each other “Enfin!” Among all the troops that Paris sent forth, none were so popular as those which Paris had not nurtured—the sailors. From the moment they arrived, the sailors had been the pets of the capital. They soon proved themselves the most notable contrast to that force which Paris herself had produced—the National Guard. Their frames were hardy, their habits active, their discipline perfect, their manners mild and polite. “Oh, if all our troops were like these!” was the common exclamation of the Parisians.
At last burst forth upon Paris the proclamations of General Trochu and General Ducrot; the first brief, calm, and Breton-like, ending with “Putting our trust in God. March on for our country:” the second more detailed, more candidly stating obstacles and difficulties, but fiery with eloquent enthusiasm, not unsupported by military statistics, in the 400 cannon, two-thirds of which were of the largest calibre, that no material object could resist; more than 150,000 soldiers, all well armed, well equipped, abundantly provided with munitions, and all (j’en a l’espoir) animated by an irresistible ardour. “For me,” concludes the General, “I am resolved. I swear before you, before the whole nation, that I will not re-enter Paris except as dead or victorious.”
At these proclamations, who then at Paris does not recall the burst of enthusiasm that stirred the surface? Trochu became once more popular; even the Communistic or atheistic journals refrained from complaining that he attended mass, and invited his countrymen to trust in God. Ducrot was more than popular—he was adored.
The several companies in which De Mauleon and Enguerrand served departed towards their post early on the same morning, that of the 28th. All the previous night, while Enguerrand was buried in profound slumber, Raoul remained in his brother’s room; sometimes on his knees before the ivory crucifix which had been their mother’s last birthday gift to her youngest son—sometimes seated beside the bed in profound and devout meditation. At daybreak, Madame de Vandemar stole into the chamber. Unconscious of his brother’s watch, he had asked her to wake him in good time, for the young man was a sound sleeper. Shading the candle she bore with one hand, with the other she drew aside the curtain, and looked at Enguerrand’s calm fair face, its lips parted in the happy smile which seemed to carry joy with it wherever its sunshine played. Her tears fell noiselessly on her darling’s cheek; she then knelt down and prayed for strength. As she rose she felt Raoul’s arm around her; they looked at each other in silence; then she bowed her head and wakened Enguerrand with her lips. “Pas de querelle, mes amis,” he murmured, opening his sweet blue eyes drowsily. “Ah, it was a dream! I thought Jules and Emile [two young friends of his] were worrying each other; and you know, dear Raoul, that I am the most officious of peacemakers. Time to rise, is it? No peacemaking to-day. Kiss me again, mother, and say ‘Bless thee.’”
“Bless thee, bless thee, my child,” cried the mother, wrapping her arms passionately round him, and in tones choked with sobs.
“Now leave me, maman,” said Enguerrand, resorting to the infantine ordinary name, which he had not used for years. “Raoul, stay and help me to dress. I must be tres beau to-day. I shall join thee at breakfast, maman. Early for such repast, but l’appetit vient en mangeant. Mind the coffee is hot.”
Enguerrand, always careful of each detail of dress, was especially so that morning, and especially gay, humming the old air, “Partant pour la Syrie.” But his gaiety was checked when Raoul, taking from his breast a holy talisman, which he habitually wore there, suspended it with loving hands round his brother’s neck. It was a small crystal set in Byzantine filigree; imbedded in it was a small splinter of wood, said by pious tradition to be a relic of the Divine Cross. It had been for centuries in the family of the Contessa di Rimini, and was given by her to Raoul, the only gift she had ever made him, as an emblem of the sinless purity of the affection that united those two souls in the bonds of the beautiful belief.
“She bade me transfer it to thee to-day, my brother,” said Raoul, simply; “and now without a pang I can gird on thee thy soldier’s sword.”