“Give it to her.”
The brothers embraced, and set out in search of M. le Curé. He blessed them all once more, and the brave young fellows fell into ranks with the soldiers, and marched off singing their battle-psalm, their hearts beating with high hope and faith and courage; while brave Vendéan mothers followed them out of the village, speeding them with blessings and cries of Vive Dieu et le Roi! It echoed through the gathering twilight with a strange, inspiring pathos. Quiet and darkness fell upon Chamtocé, the shadows died out of the silent church, the red flame of the sanctuary lamp rose and fell, flickering like a crimson pulse in the gloom,
and casting its halo on the bowed head of the Vendéan soldier’s fiancée.
PART SECOND.
François’s money multiplied with such unprecedented luck in Gaston’s keeping that the little deal box was soon too small to hold it. Gaston kept very little money of his own in hand, he let it float, as his brother said, but whatever he had was always in gold—he never took payment in anything else, and he followed the same plan for François. If it had been his own, he could not have put more zeal into the management of it; and it was with a sense of personal pride and success that at the end of a year he counted over François’s treasure, and found he had trebled the original sum. And Marie—how fared it with her? She was waiting in patience and hope and prayer till the time named by François as the furthest date of his return came and passed and brought no sign of him, and then her heart sank. She could not think that he would leave her in such cruel ignorance of his fate if he were still alive; but neither could she believe that he was dead. They would have heard of it somehow. Bad news travels quickly at all times, and even in those days of terror, when postal arrangements were broken up, and it was at the risk of his head that a messenger carried a letter, news came from the most distant points to out-of-the-way villages in a way that was almost miraculous. Les bleus were everywhere, ubiquitous, stealthy, vindictive, but they could not cut off communication between the Royalists. Fresh recruits started from Chamtocé, and wounds and deaths and noble exploits were chronicled from the distant camp or
battle-field, but not a word came over the hilly plains of La Vendée to tell of the fate of François Léonval. Two years went by, and still the silence was unbroken. Then one morning Gaston dressed himself with unwonted care, and went to the presbytery. He found M. le Curé alone. They sat some time together, and when the young man rose to take his leave, the curé said:
“You will meet her probably on the way home. Plead your own cause, my boy; I have done what I could for you; you have my best blessing if you can persuade Marie.”
Gaston met her and pleaded. But not successfully. “François said a year and a day, and after that, if you did not hear, you might be sure he had gone before us,” urged Gaston, choosing the word that would fall less harshly on his listener’s heart; “and now two years have passed and he has neither written nor sent. I do not ask you to forget him, or to cease to love him; we will both love him, and think of him always as dear brother, and he will be happier in heaven for seeing you happy here. Let me fulfil my promise to him that I would take care of you. Come home with me, Marie, and be my wife!”
“I promised that I would wait for him,” answered Marie, her dark eyes looking out toward the west with a gaze of patient longing as she walked on by Gaston’s side.
“A year and a day. You told me he said a year and a day.”