CHAPTER X.
THE DRAWING OF THE LOT.
“Our God upon the cross,
Our king upon the scaffold; let us think
Of these, and fold endurance to our hearts.”
Clémence went into her own room, and Henri followed her. The chamber was severely simple, but scrupulously neat. The narrow bedstead might have suited a nun, and the table and chairs were of unpainted deal: but an ivory crucifix, exquisitely carved, hung over the bed; and the white-washed wall was adorned with a little tier of book-shelves, constructed by Henri, and containing a select and precious library—the “Augustinos” of Jansenius, the works of Arnauld, Nicole, and other divines of the school of Port-Royal, the sermons of Fénélon, and the letters of Madame Guyon. Most precious of all was De Sacy’s translation of the New Testament; and next to this inestimable treasure, the volume best beloved and most carefully studied by Clémence was the Port-Royal edition of the “Pensées de Pascal.” Many a line, marked by the hand of the thoughtful young student, showed her sympathy with the soul of the great teacher. Her heart, like his, had turned from all that earth could give to seek a more enduring rest and a better portion. Had she found it? At least she had found much that was unspeakably precious—a God to be loved and served with all her mind, with all her soul, and with all her strength. But she had been taught to dwell rather upon his commandments than upon his gifts, and was still far from recognizing, with St. Augustine, that he himself must give that which he commands. She had seen the mystery of the cross, but dimly and afar off, reading therein rather the exceeding sinfulness of the sin that had to be atoned for, than the unutterable greatness of the love that atoned for all. Consequently, her religion was one of surrender and renunciation, not of joyous acceptance and activity; death to the flesh was her watchword rather than life in the Spirit. The air she breathed was bracing and invigorating, but it was cold and sunless. If it were the will of God that Henri should become a hunted fugitive, that he should be arrested as “refractory,” and should perish miserably in a fortress dungeon, there was nothing for her to say but this, “It is the Lord; let him do what seemeth him good.” And having said it, she would still be an unprofitable servant. Her heart, it is true, would be broken; but what mattered that to any one?
While such thoughts passed through the mind of Clémence, Henri stood in silence, leaning against the little latticed window, and looking out upon the peaceful country landscape. At last he spoke. “They are gay enough in the village,” he said. “They do not seem to dread the conscription half so much as they did last year. In fact, this new war is very popular. Mathieu Féron, who was standing in his father’s forge when I went by, said he would be glad to be drawn; and Jacques Bonin, and that other lad who is with him, were of the same mind, saying they would like nothing better than to go and give the Russians a good beating.”
“What miserable folly!” said Clémence with bitter sadness. “What have the Russians done to us, that the blacksmith’s son and the butcher’s boys of Brie should be eager to go and kill them?”
“I daresay you know as well as they do,” returned Henri.
“‘It is in his heart to pluck up and to destroy kingdoms not a few,’” Clémence quoted. “But, Henri,” she added, with a sudden gleam of hope, “may not good for us spring out of this madness of theirs? Might we not, even if you draw a bad number, find a substitute? You know there is nothing we would not part with to raise the money—nothing.”