“You must learn to be brave, as becomes a soldier’s bride, my sweet one,” du Chesne had exhorted Lydia. But the girl had no qualifications for ripening and mellowing under the influence of any searching mental experience. The atmosphere was antagonistic; she hated pain, longed for brightness, pined for sunshine. She was peevish and nervous, and had no idea of self-command; nor could she understand how it was that all the world was not absorbed in her affliction. That soft, flattering aspect of life in which she had delighted seemed to be receding from her. Diane’s patience with her moods was unfailing, yet there was something about the French girl that awed Lydia and held her at a distance. Le Ber, who had conceived some suspicion that his long-dreamed-of plans for an alliance with the de Monesthrols might be frustrated by the presence of the English captive, looked upon her with cold disapproval. Whenever she dared, Nanon, whose sense of exasperation had reached fever point, jeered and flouted at the blonde beauty. Madame la Marquise, who had had excellent occasion for weeping bitterly many times in her life, declared that these ceaseless tears gave her the migraine.
“You will retire to your chamber, my daughter,” the Marquise commanded, with a disdainful condescension which was not unkindly, looking down at the swollen, tear-stained face with a serene surprise, too elevated to partake of the nature of disgust. “You will have tisane for the sick—I have already commanded Nanon to prepare it—you will say your prayers and remain in seclusion. Where there are many anxious hearts we need cheer. There will be time for tears and lamentation when hope no longer exists, although even then I cannot see that lamentation is of use to ourselves or others. When the men are ready to give their lives for their faith and their country, it is the women’s part to nerve and encourage them; what are our pitiful weaknesses that they should stand in the way of our duty? It is the right of the nobles to submit to the decrees of Providence, to subdue the body, to show ourselves models of cheerfulness and resignation, that the more ignorant may learn to follow our example. But why talk or reason with those who have no ears to hear and no spirit to learn the lesson? Therefore, my kitten, retire to your own apartment, where, at least, you will have no chance of afflicting others.”
It must be admitted that the Marquise de Monesthrol was given to contemplating calamities with a courage which appeared overwhelming to less undaunted spirits.
Madame de St. Rochs, unable to endure the loneliness of her own home, determined to take up her abode at Le Ber’s. She came rushing in impetuously, white, cold, and shivering, in the midst of the August heat, clasping the baby and a bundle, which seemed all one, so closely were they held. The childish creature threw herself at Diane’s feet, clutching her friend’s knees, still grasping the bundle and the little waxen baby, who never seemed alarmed, in the other arm.
“I cannot keep up alone any longer, and I am ashamed to let the others see me grieve. Let me be quiet—hide me, and don’t let anybody look at me. Diane, tell me how I can live till news comes. I have fearful dreams; I cannot be strong like you.”
“At the first touch of sorrow these children think they will die,” mused the Marquise. “Ah! life were very simple could it end when it becomes unendurable. No; poor little Cecile, who is not without courage in her childish way, will live through it all, and will learn to suffer like a woman in the passion and patience of silence. But it is harder for those older, who, while feeling the wound, know that time will heal, and yet know that a look, a touch, a tone, will have power at any moment to revive the old agony till life ends. The happy delusions of youth find no resurrection.”
Under the soothing influence of Diane’s consoling presence, the baby wife succeeded in recovering her courage. As her spirits rose in transient reaction against the despondency which had crushed her, the absurd, hapless child committed a hundred extravagances. She chattered and laughed, played wild games with the baby and Nanon—pastimes which were at any moment in danger of being interrupted by vehement thunderstorms of despair.
“Our good friend Le Ber has afforded us protection; it is but right that we should share his anxiety,” decided the Marquise.
Madame de Monesthrol’s reception-room was continually thronged by women whose gaiety was almost reckless in its exuberance; but there remained an intent, listening look upon the vivacious French faces and sobs often struggled up surreptitiously amidst the laughter. While awaiting the decision of all those tremulous doubts and fears, they bravely endured the dreadful anxiety with which those shiver and burn whose strongest hopes hang in the balance. After all, most of these sorely tried people experienced a sort of desperate trust in circumstances; and the fact that duty was the thing to be considered, and not anybody’s feelings, was cheerfully recognized.
For the demoiselle de Monesthrol, the old order of things had been completely overthrown. Deprived of affection and close sympathy, she was still looking out upon a world not realized, a bewildered spectator of something like the throes of creation, seeing the new landscape tumble and roll into place, the heights and hollows changing. Those about her had their own engrossing anxieties; no one thought of her save as a friendly and disinterested sympathizer. Whatever she endured she endured alone. Yet between every pang of heart sickness there intervened bright glimpses of wayward sunshine, stirrings of fresh, uncontrollable hope. Reserve forces of strength, hitherto unsuspected, developed under the strain of silent endurance. Only a supreme resolve could have steadied her nerves, calmed the fluttering pulses, and preserved self-command. An expression of collected strength that was becoming habitual, and that during life was never again to leave it, settled upon Diane’s face. These few days had made the change of years. Her brow was contracted with lines hitherto unknown to its broad serenity, her eyes looked out eagerly from lids that had grown curved with anxiety, her mouth was drawn and colorless. Through all she tried to remind herself that God was still in heaven, faith and mercy on earth; the joy of her youth had withered, but duty must teach her to be wise and strong and courageous.