Philippe: a tale, founded on historical facts

Preface

. [ SEND it rough, as it was hewn from the rock and dug from the mine ; well pleased should one vein of golden truth pervade the whole. All the poetry, with the exception of the headings, is original, by the authoress of the tale. PHILIPPE

Chapter I

"But what a paradox of wondrous crime, What mystery dark of permanence and power, To men and angels must thy history be!" R. M. ifPlij fam''y °f Monsieur Montaban consisted jggjV^y of his wife, two daughters, one son, and a relative, named Henri Montaban, who had been consigned to his guardianship when an infant. The evening of the day on which our narrative com mences, Monsieur Montaban and his family were assembled in a pleasant sitting-room, from which a glass door opened into a flower garden, rich in beauty, rich in bloom; the care and culture of the latter gave much interesting and healthful employ ment to the younger portion of the assembled group. Bertha, the eldest daughter, taking a basket in her a Philippe. hand, descended the steps that led to the parterre, and went to the upper part of the garden, where a piece of ground was latticed round for the benefit of a few pigeons and fancy poultry that had their residence in that locality.

When Bertha had visited and fed her pets, she collected some new-laid eggs to add to the comfort of the morning breakfast party. Alas ! alas ! what woes, what changes may a day, an hour, bring forth ! What pleasing anticipations, what sanguine hopes, may the coming hour destroy ! Bertha remained inside her aviary for some time, amusing herself making arrangements for the com fort of its inmates. When her feathery charge were at rest, and safely enclosed for the night, she strolled around the neatly-arranged flower beds, culling a sweet and tasteful bouquet to ornament and perfume the breakfast table, that she usually prepared for her loved ones. When she had collected many fragrant blossoms of various kinds, a gorgeous bed of tulips attracted her attention; she stopped to admire, but not to gather them.

"No," she said, "you have no perfume ; I will leave you there to atttract the uni versal admiration you so well merit. You are like the court beauties, all dazzling to behold. But as you are only for display, the lovely flowers that shed Philippe. 7 sweet fragrance will add more charm to the home fireside. Joyfully she ascended the steps, quickly opening the glass door to show all her newly acquired trea sures, when she stumbled over the bloody head of her father, the body from which it was severed lay at a little distance. As she raised her eyes from the dreadful spectacle, her mother's gashed dead body met her gaze. A little further on lay the murdered remains of her brother, with the legs and arms severed from the trunk. Her cherished and only sister lay also before her, divided into two parts.

Bertha stood transfixed, with clasped hands (the basket and its freight falling unheeded, as in horror she clasped them,) and motionless eyes, looking through and through the bloody scene before her. All, all were dead, weltering in their blood, which deluged the room. All, the work of the Dragon nades, ordered by Louis XIV. to please the Jesuits; and thus this most Christian King consented to have his subjects massacred. Not a scream, not an exclamation, not a tear, came to her relief! Her feelings seemed pent-up, ice-bound with the chill of horror that came over her, as the fearful reality of her great woe entered through Philippe. that fixed, that prolonged gaze into her inmost soul. At length, when the full tale of horror was revealed to her stricken heart, the rigidity of her hand-clasp gave way, her knees smote together, her whole frame shook, her eyes closed, and she fell in a swoon on the dead body of her mother.

How long she remained in that state we cannot say. The shades of night were fast approaching, still she thus remained as death-like as those around her. Towards morning, as consciousness returned, and as the life-blood began to flow more quickly, she moved slowly, stretching her limbs, when one hand touched her mother's ice-like arm, with the blood clotted hair clinging round it. With a wild and piercing shriek she sprang up, alive to all the realities of her misfortune. In a state of agony she stood up right. It was still dark. She then knelt down, and with upraised hands and eyes, she speechlessly held communion upon high, seeking grace to resign her to the will of God, and to direct her for the future. Ah ! how earnestly at that awful moment did she entreat the Lord to seal her as His own, to increase her faith that she might be willing to suffer what ever He chose to afflict her with.

She remained in that one position, fearing to move, lest she might Philippe. 9 again come in contact with the horrors that sur rounded her, as she felt her nerves had been too much shaken to bear a similar shock. So she prayed, and waited for the day. In a short time she heard a footstep in the garden. She felt no fear — she had now no one to fear for — for herself she had none. She felt that her soul was in her Saviour's keeping; that her prayer was heard and answered. They could only kill her body, but could not hurt her soul. She listened, and heard distinctly footsteps approaching. Could it be Henri that had escaped ? Could he be coming to look for the sur vivors ? What could have happened Henri, who was in the room when she had left it to go into the garden? While thus anxiously listening, the door opened, and a man walked hurriedly into the room.

Daylight had dawned; though it was still too dark for her to discern the features of the kind friend who now approached, stooped and took her hand, (for she was still kneeling,) saying, "Bertha, dear girl, are you safe ? " At the sound of the well-known voice of her father's valued friend and neighbour, M. Verner, she clasped him round the knees, bursting into an agony of tears and sobs. Too great for utterance was her Philippe. 10 emotion. It was well. It was the first relief her pent-up anguish experienced. He kept his arm around her, supporting her convulsed frame. He did not try to restrain her grief. He was glad to see her tears gushing freely. The flood-gates of his own heart-sorrow opened, and they both cried and sobbed together, until the light of day had increased, so as to alarm Monsieur Verner for their mutual safety.

"Bertha, you must exert yourself and do as I di rect you. We must act quickly before our enemies are abroad. First answer my painful question with as little delay as possible. How many have you lost? I have lost my only child ! my dear daughter." " All my loved ones are here before you dead, except Henri; he is not here. I cannot tell whether he has escaped or not. I was in the garden when the dreadful butchery took place." " Come with me, Bertha, and I will show you a hiding-place, where remain until I call you. Give me the keys of your house, particularly your father's keys if you can." Bertha silently accompanied him without daring to look behind. He supported her agitated form through the pleasure-ground of her own residence. He then helped her over the boundary wall, and Philippe. 11 desired her to remain in the plantation on the other side until he returned.

She bowed her head in acquiescence, as he hurried away, taking with him M. Brooke, the gardener, who had followed him, and was in waiting to accompany him. M. Verner then went through Bertha's home, gathering in a bag, all the eatables he could find. He opened the desk of his deceased friend, as he well knew what it contained. He took from it ready money, papers of consequence respecting property, together with a sealed package directed to Henri, which had been left in care of M. Montaban, to be given to Henri when he came of age, and not until then. This package he consigned to the care of M. Brooke to give Henri, should he be able to find out where he was. M. Verner, taking with him a suit of clothes that had belonged to Bertha's deceased brother, hurried to the garden, where there was a large hole that had been dug lately in search for water.

M. Brooke then assisted him to bury the remains of the murdered family in it, covering the grave hastily, but promising to have it properly finished hereafter if possible. M. Verner was anxious to hasten to Bertha, so Philippe. 12 putting up his treasures as conveniently as he could, he soon arrived where Bertha was safely sheltered. He first gave her refreshment, making her drink wine that he had managed to bring with him. When she looked strengthened by the nourishment, he then, suspecting what might be causing her anxiety, said : — "Bertha, be comforted. I have buried my only daughter, and all the remains of your loved friends, as well as circumstances permitted." Bursting out again in hysterical sobs, she thanked him, telling him how much it comforted her, as during the time she was alone in the plantation it was harrowing her heart to think that the remains of her loved parents were left without care or burial.

" Dear sir, forgive my bursts of sorrow ; still they relieve inward pressure. Dear friend, I trust I can say, ' Thy will be done.' Glory be to Him who has enabled me to say it, who has listened to my fervent prayer for grace to say with truth, ' Thy will be done.' Must I not, dear friend of my childhood, feel for your sorrow — sorrow that is mine as well as yours." "Bertha, there is no time for us to speak or mourn ; we may be pursued. I have brought you a Philippe. 13 suit of your brother's clothes, which I request you will now put on. You can get into a retired place among the trees, while I prepare for our tiresome and perilous journey." Seeing Bertha looking disconcerted, and evincing a feeling of repugnance, he spoke with warmth : " Bertha, though you may be careless of your own life, you must remember that mine may very much depend on your obeying my wise directions with promptness.

Pray remember that I could have been, before this, some miles on my way, but for my wish to serve you. Remember, if I am caught I will be sent to the galleys. for life. It is my wish to act the part of a father towards the child of my lost, my valued friends, your parents. Go in among the trees, change your dress as I have directed you ; parcel up your own garments ; Brooke has orders to take them away." Bertha, seeing the urgency of the case, and the danger her friend was exposed to, obeyed without stating her own objections to the proceeding. Quickly returning she found him packing all he could bring with him. " Now stand quietly," he said, as he caught hold of her beautiful hair, and cut it as like the fashion of Philippe. 14 a young lad's hair as he could in his haste ; he then stained her with a brown dye, and rolled up her hair in a parcel for the gardener to destroy.

"Now come; the sun is beginning to rise. Re member you are my son ; should any person accost you, you must feign to be deaf and dumb." "Ah! do not ask me to feign. I will obey you in not speaking to any stranger." She feared to say more. M. Verner had laid aside his usual gentlemanly habit, and had dressed him self in a suit the gardener gave him in exchange. The poor persecuted pair began their wearisome journey, looking to their Heavenly Father for gui dance and protection. The way they travelled was thickly wooded, which not only comforted, by shad ing from the sun, but also protected them, in a measure, by concealing them from the troops pursuing the fugitives in every direction. The object M. Verner had in view was, to endeavour to make his way to the sea shore, and travel on by ship to England — the hospitable refuge of the hunted-down Huguenot; M. Verner not being then aware that England in that respect was changed, since the ac cession of James II., who, opportunely for the cause of the Jesuits of Rome, ascended the throne of Philippe. 15 England in that very same year that the Edict of Nantes was revoked.

The journey M. Verner had planned was a very perilous undertaking, as new laws recently enacted allowed no Huguenot to leave France. The penalty if caught fleeing was, for men, the galleys for life, and for women, confinement either in nunneries or prisons. The woods and roads leading to any way of escape, were scoured by soldiers. The sea coast was guarded; the ships were boarded and searched by the emissaries of the Most Christian King! In what could Louis have deserved the title of Most Christian King? Is it because he obeyed duteously the hellish orders of " The Society of Jesus" ? Strange delusion ! Strange application of words — of names — of titles ! Philippe.

Chapter II

" Are not we beset . . . by fiendish hosts, Curtained in secrecy of hate and hell. " R. M. §pjj*|ERTHA, now fully understanding the exi p.vSJjlli gencies of the ease, and fully appreciating the self-denial and great kindness of her friend, her now sole guide and protector, instantly resolved to put forth all her energies, to he a helper instead of a drawback — a burden on the good friend who was suffering in the same sad necessity as she was — equally needing the balm of sympathy and kindness to heal his deeply wounded heart. From his own lips she now learned that on returning home the evening before, rather later than usual, he found the mutilated body of his daughter lying on the floor. His house was open, and empty; the ser vants, he supposed, having either recanted or fled to save their lives.

Philippe. 17 When he had recovered from the shock he had received, he buried his daughter's remains in his gar den ; digging himself her grave, and piously kneeling there, he sought strength and resignation. He then thought of his friend Montaban, whose house, though not adjoining his, was within a short walk through their respective pleasure-grounds. On see ing the desolation of his friend's only surviving child, he resolved to be to her a father. Bertha had loved his daughter as a sister; she had been the plav-fellow of her childhood, and the friend of her more advanced years. Sympathy for each other's grief, thus cemented the bond of union be tween them, and they wended their intricate way to gether as quickly as they could ; Bertha exerting her strength, not to delay the friend who seemed to dread being pursued.

The sun had now risen higher, tinting the horizon with that lovely roseate hue of dawn, dispersing the lingering shades of night, and pouring such a flood of light, of brightness all around, as to lend enchant ment to the lovely scene it shone upon. The dew drops that graced the wavy sprays of the brushwood looked so bright and sparkling, as they glistened away in the beam, that they quite out-rivalled the Philippe. 18 splendour of the diamond coronet of royalty. The sweet little hour-glass flowerets, here and there, ever and anon, opening their soft petals to bathe them in the sunbeams, to reflect the brilliancy of his rainbow rays, marking time as they oped, or drooped, or closed, added beauty still to beauty. Well may one exclaim, as in days of yore, "What a pity when creation is so lovely, that only man is vile."

It is too true that man is vile, but man was not always vile. All that God created was pronounced good. How few realize the fact, the melancholy fact, that a strong power, the power of Satan, a power antagon istic to God, to all that is good, is always at work to destroy, to overturn all that is good or holy, and to bring man into perdition along with himself, Satan, the prince of the powers of hell. How tremendous the power to do evil that Satan exercises in this world. His myrmidons, his angels, are innumerable. Legion ! their name. Man has not only to wrestle against flesh and blood, and against his own evil na ture, he has also to wrestle against principalities and powers, against the rulers of darkness in this world, and against spiritual wickedness in high places. As soon as man, in the image of his Maker, appeared on this earth, the devil sought to mar the image, and succeeded.

Philippe. 19 Enraged then that God should send His own Son, not only to restore man to what he had lost by sin, but also to crush the power of the serpent-devil, he, the devil, aided by all the powers of hell, has ever since, to the utmost of his power, endeavoured to keep men from being the subjects of Christ's kingdom ; enlisting in his cause, (the cause of sub verting the power and kingdom of Christ,) not only his myrmidons, legion, hisp rincipalities, his rulers of darkness, but also enlisting men, with craft and subtlety, to enter the lists against their fellow-men, that the kingdom of Christ might not prosper in the world, and that the wondrous work of salvation, finished and protected by Christ, (if possible,) might be marred, as was the work of creation. Thus, in this world's history, Satan's devils, and Satan's men, have always been opposed to God's Word and God's people.

Since Christ came, the devil (knowing that his time is short, knowing that he failed in his trial to tempt the second Adam) is furiously working, employing his children among men, to help in de stroying the kingdom of Christ, at least within the hearts of men. The printing of the Bible in all the languages spoken in the world, and its wide circula tion, shook so much the devil's power to turn souls Philippe. 20 away from Gospel truth and Gospel light, that no trouble is spared, no means left undone, to prevent the circulation of God's Word among mankind, or its simple meaning being understood. Political powers, Jesuits, infidels combine to per secute, to torture, to kill, to immure all who dare to read the Word of their God, the letter of their Re deemer, lest they might learn the way of salvation.

Man became vile when he lost the image of his Maker; and vile, vile indeed, is man when he be comes the soldier of the devil, the child of the devil, the politician for the devil, working with all subtlety and craft to help on the wicked work of his master Satan, in subverting the kingdom of Christ. Because the Huguenots believed and loved the Bible, the devil trembled at its power of turning men from darkness to light, and from the power of Satan unto God. Thus, the policy of the powers of hell was to put down the Bible, to burn it, and to destroy by fire and sword all who read, taught, or professed it. It is very sad to feel and know that our fellow men, our brothers in the flesh, join and aid the devil in this Bible warfare. There are but two classes among mankind. Those who work for Christ, and enlist on His side, and those who work for Satan, Philippe. 21 and enlist under his banner.

" We cannot serve two masters." " He that is not against us is on our part/' Christ says. Whose work then was the work of the cruel persecution of the Bible Huguenots? Was it the work of God, or the work of His adversary, the devil ? We cannot stand neutral. We must either join the ranks of the great opponent that fighteth against God, or stand on the side of God. God, who well knew the power His people would have to contend with in this state of probation, has Himself provided the armour the Christian should be clad in, to protect him from the darts of the wicked one. He describes it in the sixth chapter of Ephesians, beginning at the sixth verse. "THE GIRDLE OF TRUTH." Ehpes. vi. May we put on that panoply Divine ! That armour forged in heaven from heaven's mine ; That hell, with all its power and all its wiles, May never shade us from our Father's smiles.

Oh ! to be girt about with Truth while here — That golden girdle of a brighter sphere ! The lip of Truth, defying Satan's art, And Truth within, ennobling all the heart. Its honest flashing in the eye e'en now, And all its dignity upon the brow. C Philippe. 22 Fair Truth ! an emanation from above, That fled this earth when Adam ceased to love, And hid— Oh! then how lies did flood this earth, Black as the dark abyss that gave them birth ; But mercy smiled — and gave a treasure-trove — God's Truth embodied in His Book of Love ; And Christ, the Truth was given — and Christ can free Mankind from Satan's power and slavery. THE BREAST-PLATE. What more, say, of the Christian warrior's dress ! Yes, there's a Breast-Plate — Christ, our Righteousness! This wondrous Breast- Plate's all so pure, so bright — Shrinking aghast, our foe gives up the sight.

"THE FEET SHOD WITH THE GOSPEL OP PEACE." Christians ! go bid the Gospel trumpet sound, And chase the devil from his vantage ground. He may deem fallen man is all his own, Where news of grace and peace have never flown. Then cast the Gospel net near every shore, Many have come ! still, still, there 's room for more ; Jesus' dominion ! Is it not to be From pole to pole ? yes, and from sea to sea. Work each, work all, a soul there 's still to save ; ' Tis drop by drop that swells the ocean wave. The carrier-bird on silvery pinions bore The Gospel tidings to a distant shore. In battle-field, a dying warrior read Salvation ! on the covering of his bed, Work'd for the wounded by a mother's hand, ' Twas her own son it saved in foreign land. THE SHIELD. The fiery darts of Satan's band, Weak, sinful man could ne'er withstand, Philippe. 23 Save for that armoury above, The Christian's treasury of love — "I am thy Shield," the Father saith, But hast thou thine ? thy shield of Faith, A wall of fire encircles thee, Whene'er thy trust is placed in me.

THE HELMET. The Helmet ! — Christ our hope, our own Salvation ! — Oh ! the glorious crown ! Salvation, far and near proclaim ! Salvation ! — Music 's in the name — All echoed from the realms of love, By angels round the throne above, And, acting like a magic spell, It shakes the very domes of helL THE SWORD. And then the power of that sword — The Word of God ! — the mighty Word ! The weapon that alone o'erthrows The strongholds of our hellish foes . The Spirit's Sword ! Say, can this be The flaming guardian of " The Tree"? That emblem of God's only Son ! Th' Eternal Life !— The Holy One ! Great was the triumph down in hell When Adam sinn'd, when Adam fell ; But greater still the hellish rage, When Jesus, in a later age, Came here to bruise the Serpent's head, And to awake to life the dead.

To tempt the second Adam, then The sinless Man, 'mong sinful men, Satan came with his wiliest wiles, Hiding his guile 'neath blandest smiles — Philippe. 24 Fiery the trial ! All alone ! Thus to defeat the evil one, And hurl him from His earthly throne. Christ's weapon was the written Word, The Spirt's sharp, two-edged sword ; The flaming sword that kept " The Way" To endless life, to endless day, And Christ, the Way, the Life, is ours, In spite of hell and all its powers. PRAYER. Prayer is the wing that wafts our wishes high, The ladder that connects us with the sky ; The speaking trumpet, sounding far above, The aspirations of a heart of love. " Archimedes would move the world," he said, " Could he but have his mighty lever laid." The Christian triumphs o'er the Heathen there — Faith is his fulcrum, and his lever — prayer — POWER * that can move the mountain from its bed — Prayer, based on faith, the very devils dread. * Mark xi. 23, 24. Philippe. 25

Chapter III

K,n>W£| E have said that Henri was a ward of t^Aeal M. Montaban. His father was a man of rank and distinction. He was much loved by the oppressed Huguenots of France, whose cause he warmly espoused, and whose battles he bravely fought, when Cardinal Richelieu was at the head of affairs. Henri's mother was his second wife. His eldest son, by his first wife, was ten years old when Henri was bom. A few seconds after the birth of Henri, a servant (who was impatiently awaiting in expectation of his father's arrival with the eldest son to partake of the dinner she had prepared) rushed suddenly into his mother's bedroom exclaiming, " Dreadful news, Madam ! The master and his son have been kidnapped and murdered!" The physician, who was at the bedside of the invalid, sent the woman away; but, alas! the shock had taken effect on his patient — a fatal effect.

Her nearest relative, M. Montaban, was immediately sent for. " Dear friend," she said, when he arrived, Philippe. " this morning my husband left home to visit his eldest son at the school where he is a boarder, in order to bring him here to spend his birthday with us. Unexpectedly I was taken ill after he left. Is it not sad ! Do you think what I have heard is true?" M. Montaban endeavoured to soothe and comfort her. " The doctor thinks I cannot live many hours. Will you adopt my son, and bring him up as your own ? Let him be baptised, Henri Montaban. Let him remain ignorant of his sirname until he comes of age. My reason for secrecy on this point is, that I fear the enemies who have waylaid his father and brother will not allow him to live if they know that he is also the son of the gallant man whom they feared, and therefore hated."

M. Montaban promised acquiescence to her wishes in every respect. He then wrote, by her dictation, a letter to her son Henri, to be given to him when he came of age. She also bequeathed an annuity she possessed in her own right to the care of M. Monta ban, for Henri's use. "Now pray," she said, "let me bid farewell to the little darling who must never know a father or a mother's love. Pray take him at Philippe. 27 once to his future home. I wish to forget earthly things, and to fix my heart and mind on things above, where Christ sitteth on the right hand of God. Oh ! my husband, are you there before me, or are you still on earth in suffering ? " M. Montaban had the baby brought to his wife, who had been recently confined of a daughter. His wife lovingly received the child, nursing the two children as twin sister and brother : nor did they, while she lived, ever know that she was not their mutual parent.

The doctor and M. Montaban remained with the dying mother, who passed away quietly in a sleep before daybreak. Henri was very happy in his adopted home. Monsieur and Madame Montaban loved him as their own child. He grew up with their children, believing that he really was their brother. Bertha and Henri, being the twin brother and sister, were inseparable in childhood. They played and studied together. Henri felt in Bertha the comfort of a sister's fond, abiding love, and Bertha experienced the manly assistance and protec tion of a brother from Henri, whose affection for her was unbounded. When Henri grew up, he remained part of the Philippe. year in Paris to complete his studies. He there became acquainted with the young Count de Pare, for whom he conceived a sincere friendship, and, though the Count was his senior by nine or ten years, he enjoyed his society very much.

Stranger still — the Count was a Roman Catholic ! Yet, not withstanding the want of confidence persecution caused at that time between the two sects, Henri and the Count were inseparable. The Count had at this time in his employment, as caretaker of his horses, a soldier, at present discharged, but liable to be called on when any emergency required additional troops. His faithfulness and affection won the sincere regard of the Count and his friend. He was an Irishman who, fond of " seeing the world," as he said, left his home at an early age, in a merchant vessel bound for France. When he had spent all his money seeing the sights in Paris and in other places, he enlisted in a French regiment, which regi ment had been disbanded some years before. Since that time he had faithfully served the Count de Pare.