Lord Montagu's Page: An Historical Romance

by G. P. R. James

This was the amount of young Brin's foreign intelligence,—for such to him it was; and as soon as it was given he proceeded to describe and eulogize his mother's farm, which he had not quitted more than two or three times in his life, and which he seemed to think both the richest and most beautiful spot of earth. Rich indeed it was; but to explain its sort of riches I must have recourse to that old author whom I have already quoted. I must premise, however, that the spot on which Edward Langdale now found himself was just at the edge of what are called the dried marshes, where they join on to the marais mouillans, which, at the time I write of, were much more extensive than at present. The farm, then, of La Caponnière comprised a portion of both; and, as the marais desséchés have been already described from the account of an eye-witness, I may be permitted a word or two from the same source in regard to the marais mouillans. "All these marshes," says my author, "are not equally inundated; and, in consequence, all parts are not equally sterile. The highest parts [of the marais mouillans] are under water from the middle of October to the middle of June, and sometimes later. The lower parts never dry; and, to make something of them, they have been cut by innumerable canals, all communicating, and only separated from each other by earth-banks of from twelve to fifteen feet in width, piled up from the excavated earth of the canals. These earth-banks are of prodigious fertility, many of them planted with willows, ashes, poplars, and sometimes oaks; so that one is often astonished to see so vigorous a forest springing out of the middle of the waters."

The traveller then goes on to tell the uses these forests are put to,—how the fagots are sent to Rochelle and the Isle de Rhé, and how the trunks of the trees, cut into firewood and called cosses de marais, are highly valued throughout the whole of the neighboring country, and burn better than any other trees. But, as the reader will probably never dabble in the cultivation of the marshes of Brétagne, he shall be spared the details. My author, however, goes on to state that the farms vary in extent from two hundred and forty to twelve hundred acres, and that each is divided by little canals into squares of about thirty acres, each canal being large enough to carry a small boat.

Now fancy, dear reader, what an interminable network of water-communication these canals, each hidden from the other by trees and shrubs, must form; how impossible for any but one born and bred in the country to find one's way along there; how easy for any one acquainted with their involutions to baffle the most skilful pursuer, to lie hid from the eyes of the most clear-sighted enemy. The Minotaur did not feel himself more safe in the depths of the Cretan labyrinth than Edward Langdale after their morning's row; and Edward was more safe than the Minotaur.

"Here," he thought, "we may stay till all pursuit is ended and all suspicions forgotten, till dear Lucette has recovered strength,—and, perhaps, till I can communicate with Mauzé or Rochelle."

All very well as a matter of probability; but where any thing is joined together by mere tacks—as is indeed the case with the fate of every one,—and not alone with his fate for years or months, but for a single hour—it is much better to remember, before we make any calculation at all, what tacks may fall out or get broken and the whole piece of machinery tumble to atoms.

Edward Langdale could shoot a duck; and, though the birding-piece which the young farmer trusted to his hands was a single barrelled gun of rather primitive construction, and the shot merely bits of lead cut small, not a bird got away from him,—more to the admiration than the liking of his companion, who had fancied that he could display some skill in the eyes of one whom he believed to be city bred.

However, the boat was plentifully loaded before they returned; and the young farmer guided it back by a different course from the marais mouillans to the firm land near the house, pointing out to Edward, with an air of pride and satisfaction, six or seven woolly beasts upon a tongue of the terrier, and telling him they were sheep.

At their return to the house they found the whole household up, with the exception of Lucette; but the result of their sport was very much commended, and one of the hearty breakfasts of the country was prepared. The living, indeed, seemed profuse, and, what though the cooking was for the land somewhat coarse, yet it was French, and therefore better than it would have been anywhere else in the same circumstances. There were ducks, and good bacon, and eggs, and fine fowls, and a ragout, and plenty of galette. Alas! there was no coffee, no chocolate,—nay, no tea; but there was excellent white wine of Logé, and there was as good red wine of Fay Moreau; for the age of hot stops had not yet arrived, and Noah's discovery blessed the land within ten leagues of them.

Lucette joined them before they sat down; and, for some reason, she blushed more at her boy's dress when there were women round her than she had done before; but her cheek soon became pale, and Edward thought, with some alarm, she did not look well. She assured him, however, that she merely suffered from fatigue.

The meal was not concluded when several of the peasantry from the neighboring country came to La Caponnière in their boats, bearing with them tidings of the fire of the preceding night, and of various other serious accidents which had occurred during the great storm. Numberless trees had been struck and two men killed by the lightning; but the facts of most interest—at least to Edward and Lucette—were those connected with the destruction of the abbey. One of the visitors had come that morning from Moreilles, and of course was the oracle of the occasion. Two-thirds of the great tower had fallen, he said, crushing the dormitory and the southern cloisters. The whole church was seriously injured, the Lady chapel being the only part preserved; and, although the monks themselves with one exception had escaped unhurt, it was generally rumored, the good man said, that some five or six persons—either guests, or people who came to assist—had been crushed under the part of the tower which first fell. Who they were the peasant could not tell; but the mention of the sad fact set both Lucette and Edward upon the track of imagination. It was then for the first time that Edward perceived that Pierrot la Grange had not been at the breakfast-table. On inquiring for him, Master Ned was answered by good Madame Brin's son that his servant had gone with the man who had rowed them the night before, to inquire about the fire,—a very imprudent act as it seemed to Edward; and yet he had a good deal of confidence in Pierrot's tact,—which was not ill placed. About twelve, his long figure appeared in the kitchen; and now the whole details were given. They were interesting to the good Cabanier family, for the principal new fact was that Monsieur George Brin, their relative, was safe and well, and had set out for the lines under Mauzé. The other soldiers, he said, had perished, with the exception of one, who still lived, terribly mangled. He was so drunk when he left the parlor, Pierrot said, that he could not get to the assigned sleeping-place, but fell upon the stairs, where he still lay when the tower was struck. Thus, though sadly beaten by detached stones, he had escaped crushing by the great mass of masonry.