Armand de l'Isle

Front matter

BY A. M. ROSE, Author of "The Preacher of St Justin's." EDEN, REMINGTON & CO. LONDON AND SYDNEY. 1893. " What is the course of the life Of mortal men on the earth Most men eddy about Here and there — eat and drink, Chatter and love and hate, Gather and squander, are raised Aloft, are hurl'd in the dust, Striving blindly, achieving Nothing ; and then they die — Perish ! and no one asks Who or what they have been, More than he asks what waves, In the moonlit solitudes mild Of the midmost ocean, have swell'd, .Foam'd for a moment, and gone." Matthew Aenolp. THIS BOOK IS 2>e&tcate& TO MY MOTHER, AS A TOKEN OF LOVE, AND OF GRATITUDE FOE HER NEVER - FAILING ENCOURAGEMENT AND SYMPATHY. CONTENTS. CHAP. PAGE I. — Two Pictures, .... 1 II. — Nature's Children, .... 3 III. — A Life Sentence, .... 7 IV. — Severed, . . . . .15 V. — A Sister's Jealousy,. . . .18 VI. — A Sister's Vengeance, . . .23 VII. — A Little Wanderer, . . . .29 V1IL— Les Ocblies, ..... 37 IX. — Death's Call to Life, . . .42 X. — Hilaire, ..... 47 XI.— A Fable, ..... 54 XII.— Paris, ...... 58 XIII.— A Lost Heir, ..... 69 XIV. — Infatuation, ..... 82 XV.— A Plot, 87 XVI.— A Willing Victim 94 XVII.— Mad Humanity, . . . .102 XVIII.— Danger, . . . . .110 XIX.— Anarchy, . . . . .121 XX. — The Duchesse de Beaucourt, . .127 XXI. — In Sorrow and Disgrace, . . .138 XXII. — Woman's Relentless Will, . . .

Contents. VIII CHAP. % P40E XXIII.— Restored to Life and Tribulation, ■ 157 XXIV.— In the Great City, . . . .169 XXV.— Father and Daughter. . . .176 XXVI.— Found, .... .183 XXVII.— Wedded, 190 XXVIII.— A Voice in the Abbey, . • 198 XXIX. — Brother Antoine's Visitor, . . ■ 206 XXX.— Treachery, . . . .214 XXXI. — The Same, yet not the Same, . ■ 219 XXXII.— Brother Antoine's Warning, . • 230 XXXIII.— Thwarted, . . • .236 XXXIV.— A Sacrifice, . . . . .241 XXXV.— A Dark Shadow, .... 247 XXXVI.— A Great Renunciation, . . .252 XXXVII.— Death, ...... 261 XXXVIII.— Widowed, . . . . .268 XXXIX.— Hilaire's Love-Story, . . . 276 XL. — A French Stranger, .... 284 XLL— Cruel Fate, . . . . .293 XLII. — The General and the Monk, . 306 XLIIL— A Long, Sad Summer, . . .312 XLIV.— Condemned, . . . . .318 XLV.— The Eve of Death, . . . .323 XLVI.— The Last Moment, . . . .332 XLVII. — Brother Antoine's Venqeance, . . 340 XLV III.— Home at Last, . . . .344 LISLE ■0

Chapter I

, TWO PICTURES. '■ The night shall be filled with music, And the cares that infest the day Shall fold their tents like the Arabs, And as silently steal away." — Longfellow. The monastery bell tolls the hour of midnight, ancl, as the sounds die away, silence again reigns throughout the building. In one lonely cell sits a young monk reading, while the knell of parting day heralds the advent of the new. The pale, cold rays of the moonlight up the wooden crucifix and the rosary which hang upon the bare walls, and almost eclipse the glimmer of the little candle which burns dimly on the table where the works of Aristotle and Plato lie open. Wearing restlessness and mental pain seem like a slow fire to be consuming the slender frame of the young man, who slowly turns over page after page, as if seeking for repose or for oblivion of self in the great thoughts of the dead.

On and on he A reads, until at last his head sinks wearily upon the books, and he sleeps ; and as he sleeps the look of pain fades away, and the face grows young and boyish again. The same moon is shedding its silvery light across a wide and lonely moorland. Nature is hushed, for slumber has laid her quieting hand on Nature's restless children. Now and then only is the still air startled by the wild hoot of the owl and the precipitate flight of the bat. The only habitation near is a stately country mansion. At an open lattice window sits a young girl ; sad and weary is the expression of her large, dark eyes as she gazes out into the still night. " Oh, for rest," she sighs, " rest from life's cease less longings. All things have rest but the troubled human heart ; that alone knows no peace."

But ere long, as if to contradict her words, sleep comes to her, a smile of happiness parts her lips, and the look of weariness is _;one. What are the pleasant memories which in dreams re-visit these two sleepers, while the moonbeams grow paler and paler, until they are lost in the radiance of the rising sun ?

Chapter II. Nature's Children

" And Nature, the old nurse, took The child upon her knee, Saying, * Here is a story book Thy Father has written for thee. Once in the sunny land of Southern France, all through the long, bright, summer days, a little boy and girl wandered, with the happy carelessness of childhood, among the rich, green vineyards, or along the banks of sparkling streams. No sad thoughts ever entered into their bright hearts. They knew not the meaning of sorrow or toil. For them the world was one large beautiful play-ground, and life a joyous festival. But now and then, as they lay among the sweet clematis and wove the flowers into garlands, the sombre form of a monk or nun glided slowly and silently past them, and for a moment a feeling of wonderment and even awe possessed them, and their merry chatter ceased and their laughter was hushed until that sad figure had vanished, and then their gay voices would again mingle with the songs of the birds.

They sometimes heard those around them talk gloomily of misery, want, and oppression, and a few even hinted at an impending anarchy. But what did it matter to those two light-hearted chil dren ? for, in spite of all evils, the vines still bore their purple clusters, the flowers still bloomed, and the sun still shone. They had no dark forebodings of the future — it was to be a golden age for them. " I shall be a great man," said the little boy. " And I shall be your wife," said the little girl. Having thus arranged their destiny, they laughed and played in lhe sunshine, and lived in a truly golden present. Armand de ITsle and Eugenie de Lorraine were the children of two French gentlemen whose estates lay side by side at the foot of the Pyrenees. Both were motherless, and being the youngest of their families, they were accounted of little importance, and were left to the care of the servants, who took no more trouble about them than did their relations.

So the children lived a wild, free life, with nature as their only tutor. And nature performed the task imposed on her faithfully, as she ever does. She filled the hearts of those two neglected, yet happy, little ones with great and wondrous ideas of the m3Tstical world of which they knew so little, yet so beautiful a part ; and she called forth noble, though childlike aspirations, which the fossilizing process of life was never able thoroughly to petrify. If they had received ordinary training and education, it is probable that they would have passed through life with eyes and heart closed to the beauty and wonder of Nature. But she, having taken her little charges by the hand, led them gently along her pleasant paths, instilling into their minds a thirst for knowledge, and a desire to understand all her mysteries.

One evening, as the setting sun was dyeing with a rich crimson the snow-capped Pyrenees, the two children, wearied by a long clamber up the mountains, sat down to rest on the banks of a softly flowing stream, and bathe their feet in the cool, clear waters. A pretty picture they made as they sat there side by side, Armand with his golden curls and deep - blue eyes in contrast to his black-haired, black-eyed companion. " I wish I were grown up," said Armand, as he stirred the water with his bare foot. " What will you do then ? " asked Eugenie. "I shall travel all over the world," replied Armand, '; I shall see everything, and learn about everything. I think, Eugenie," he added gravely, " that there must be a great deal which we know nothing about. I was looking into some of father's books tlie other day, but I could not understand them, for the words were all different to what we speak.

I shall go to find the meaning of those words." " You will let me go with you," said Eugenie, anxiously; for the future which he had pictured seemed to exclude her. "Yes," said the boy; "where I go you shall go too. We will always be together, and love one another best." Eugenie was satisfied, and there was silence for a while as they watched the shadows lengthen and deepen on the water. " I wonder where the sun goes," said Armand, dreamily, as he gazed into the far horizon which was glorious with the sun-set glow. A brilliant thought struck Eugenie. " Let us go and see," she exclaimed. " Let us go at once. It takes so long to grow old, and no one would miss us if we went." ARMAND DE L'lSLE. But Armand doubted the expediency of the plan. He was not so enterprising nor impulsive as the little girl.

Eugenie's energetic nature would not allow any obstacle to impede her progress if there was the smallest possibility of removing it. Ar mand was more deliberate and thoughtful. He lived in dreams, and his mind was imaginative and idealistic. She was like a swollen brooklet that had just left its mountain bed, and rushes headlong over stones and rocks in its impetuous haste to reach the vast, unfathomable ocean. He was like the stream as it flows softly and dreamily through the valley. " Let us go, Armand," she pleaded ; " I know we can do it. If we start very early in the morning we shall get over there before the sun does ; and then we shall see where it goes." Eugenie's confidence was infectious, and over came Armand's misgivings. " We can try," he said ; " perhaps, too, we can go where the sun goes, and we may learn the meaning of those words in father's books." So they fixed the hour of dawn next morning to start on their world-wide wanderings. O

Chapter III

A LIFE SENTENCE. " All men seemed mad to him ! Nature had made him for some other planet. And pressed his soul into a human shape By accident or malice. In this world He found no fit companion." — Coleridge. When Armand reached home, he was told that his father wished to speak to him ; that he was to go at once to the library, for Monsieur had waited long. Armand was startled. Never before had his father expressly sent for him. The Marquis de l'lsle had been some months in Paris, and had returned about a week before, and, until now, he had not even spoken to his son. He was a man whose life had been blighted by an unhappy marriage. His nature had always been grave and thoughtful. To him life was a serious reality, and it pained him to see what a mockery Society made of it ; how the noble aims and emotions of which humanity is capable were travestied in the trivial though all-absorbing pur suits of the fashionable world.

The Marquis de ITsle had been an ambitious man ; and his had been the most vaulting ambition. It was to raise the tone of Society. He had planned a Utopia, the realisation of which was to be the result of his own powerful efforts. ARMAND DE L'lSLE. But he was checkmated by the cruel and subtle cleverness of a golden-haired girl who, reading his character with cunning insight, perceived the open ing by which she might crawl into his affection, and bear off as her prize his title and wealth. As he talked to her, her beautiful blue eyes seemed to reveal a heart filled with sympathetic enthusiasm. His ardent nature glowed with grateful joy at hav ing, as he thought, discovered a type of the perfect womanhood which was to grace his Utopia. He married her, and discovered in a few short weeks how cruelly he had been deceived.

His love turned into hatred. He never reproached her, but left her free to follow her natural inclinations, while in silent anger he brooded over the frustration of his hopes. She bore him two sons, and died when Armand was a baby, leaving her husband a morose and disappointed man, embittered against his fellow creatures, his own children included. His eldest son had scarcely left boyhood behind him, but was already following in his mother's footsteps, and had acquired the habits and airs of an experienced man of the world. His father took no more notice of him than of his little brother, so both boys lived as they chose, and no restraint was put upon them. When Armand entered the library the Marquis de ITsle was sitting at an open window, which over looked rich gardens and vineyards, while in the distance the white peaks of the Pyrenees were growing dim and weird in the increasing gloom.

He was a tall, slimly-made man with iron o-rey hair, his eyes were dark and sunken, his long, thin face was stern and melancholy. He was an aristo crat, every inch of him. The " people " were, in his eyes, a different race of beings of an inferior order. He was just to his tenants, even lenient ; but he despised them, and they knew it. All feared him ; many hated him. Since his return from Paris this time, he had been closely watching his son without the boy being aware of it. On the evening that the Marquis had been expected home, Armand had climbed into a tree to watch for him, imagining that the foliage hid him it . xi from sight. He feared his father, but the austere face fascinated him. Armand, however, was not concealed so completely as he thought ; for, as the Marquis de ITsle drove past, a gleam of gold among the green leaves caught his attention, and he saw a pair of large, dark-blue eyes gazing at him.

This passing and momentary glimpse of his son startled him out of his indifference, for the boy was so like his mother. This resemblance had at first raised his resentment, even dislike, while the bitter feelings of past years rushed on him with over whelming force. From that day, almost against his will, he would stand by the hour together at a window from which he could watch his son at play. Often he noticed how the boy would lie with his golden head thrown back upon the grass, gazing with wondering, dreaming eyes into the clear azure sky. It seemed as if the soul in that little frame was awakening to a knowledge of the infinite and divine in nature. After all, the boy might resemble his mother only in appearance, thought the Marquis ; and his con science reproached him for allowing his child to grow up wild and untaught.

Yet, perhaps, ignorance was better for him. His eldest son had received the best education, and of what use had it been to him ? He had no sooner obtained his freedom than all books and serious thought were cast aside in exchange for the hollow gaiety of Parisian life. Was this to be the course of his youngest son ? Was there no alternative be tween the free, untutored life which he now led and the fast, unsatisfactory career of his eldest ? Yes, there was one way, and only one — the life of a monk. When a young man, it had been thought that he would retire from the world which he seemed to despise and seek the seclusion of a monastery. But his ambition had extended beyond the boundary of the monastic cell. It was not society itself that he had despised, but the tone of society ; and to raise its character had been the motive of his younger days.

But he had failed — miserably failed, as he bitterly told himself time after time. Was he wrong and cowardly in having allowed himself to be crushed by that one fatal mistake ? By a manly endeavour might he not have risen above it ? In spite of the drawbacks in his home ought he not to have still persevered ? But it was too late now to begin afresh. His life had been a failure, and that failure, unimpaired, must be buried with him in the grave. His son, however, should not suffer as he had done. Hard though it would be for the child to give up his freedom and his present joyous life, yet the time must come when the birds, and flowers, and sunshine would not content him, and he would seek more sensual enjoyments. Better that the boy should suffer a little trial now than be pained in after years by the deceit of man, or maddened by the treachery of woman.

Such were the thoughts which engrossed the mind of the Marquis de ITsle as he sat by the open window awaiting his son. When at last he awoke from his reverie the boy was standing by his chair, and was gazing at him with a half-timid, half -expectant look. He little thought that whilst he had been planning a life of pleasure and liberty, his father had destined him to one of austerity and discipline. The Marquis drew Armand to him, and gazed with his deep melancholy eyes into his son's face ; then in a voice so stern that the boy trembled he exclaimed — " You are like your mother in face — pray God you may never resemble her in character." It was the first and last time that Armand ever heard his father refer to his mother, and he shrank back terrified at the words, and at the tone in which they were uttered.

But the Marquis did not wish to frighten his son. He bade Armand sit by his side and tell him how he had spent the day. " I have been up the mountains, father." " What did you do there ? " Armand was silent, for he felt instinctively that his father would not sympathise with the thoughts and fancies and pleasures so real and so precious to Eugenie and himself. "Are you content to idle away your days in ignorance upon the mountains ? " the Marquis asked, not repeating his former question ; " or would you like to know something of what men know ? Would you like to be able to read about the lives and thoughts of great men who lived many, many years ago, in other countries, and who spoke a different language from ours ? " The boy's eyes sparkled with delight. " Oh ! father, let me learn," he cried in his eagerness.

" Tell me what all your books are about." The Marquis de ITsle was gratified, and his face softened. "You shall have your wish," he said gently, " but the fulfilment of it may cost you pain. The life you now lead is one of perfect freedom, but j'ou must give up this freedom ; you must go among strangers and submit to the laws and regulations of a monastery, and I trust that your conduct will prove you worthy to become in time one of the community." The boy started to his feet, and stood before his father, pale and trembling. " Do you mean that I am to be a monk ? " he asked in terror. " Yes." That single word sounded to him like a death knell : for a moment he felt stunned. Then the face of Eugenie rose before him and he re membered the promise he had made her that they would always love each other best, and where he went she also should go.

He thought, too, of the long, happy days that they had spent together : of the bright sunshine, of the glad songs of the birds, and of the beautiful flowers ; then of their old childish awe of the monks and nuns, whom they regarded as phantoms from another world, coming now and again to revisit the bright earth for a little while, and then returninoto a dreary, unknown region behind the high walls of the monastery. Was he to become one of these phantoms ? " Oh ! father, I cannot be a monk," he cried passionately, as the fact broke upon him in all its ghastliness. " I promised Eugenie that I would never leave her." A bitter expression passed over the Marquis's face. '• Who is Eugenie ? " he asked. Then he slowly drew from his son the story of his friendship with the little girl. The simple tale touched him to the heart, and for a while he paced slowly up and down the room, trying to stifle his desire to relent.

This was only a boy's love, a child's rather, and better that there it should begin and end. He went back to the boy and again sat down beside him. "You are very young," he said, "to have discovered the curse of man ; one would have thought that you might have been spared for a few more years." He spoke more to himself than to the boy, but Armand listened, wondering^. " What is the curse, father ? " he asked. " It is hard to explain it to you, Armand," lie said; "you are only a boy, therefore now you can not fully understand ; but you must trust me and believe that I know best. I am sending you to the seclusion of a monastery, which causes you present pain in order to save you from intenser pain in the future. Would it not grieve you greatly if, when you become a man, Eugenie should cease to care for you, and turn with delight to any stranger that came across her path ?

" A look of grief and perplexity passed over the boy's face. " Would Eugenie do so ? " he asked. " All women are false," replied the Marquis, again almost forgetting that the boy was listening. "We love them with our whole heart, we devote our selves both body and soul to them, but they weary of us and cast us away, as they do their withered flowers." The words sank deep into the boy's heart, filling him with a vague sense of an impending calamity He did not doubt the truth of his father's words, and his grief and fears were more for Eugenie than for himself, since she must be a woman, and there fore false. He sat pondering over it with a face sadder than a child's should ever be. As the Marquis looked at his son his conscience smote him, although he reasoned with himself that it was better for the boy to suffer now than later, when his feelings would be more intense.

" Armand," he said, " in the cloister you will be shut away from all the vice and immorality with which society is envenomed ; in the monastery you will meet with purity and peace, you will be un molested by the allurements and false ambitions of the outside world ; in quiet seclusion you will be able to give your mind to what is noble and right. You must not think your father cruel ; I know it will be better for you in the end. You are ignorant of the world and, knowing it as I do, I feel that it will be most merciful to keep you ignorant." Then, putting his arm round his son, he kissed him. A sudden flush of colour swept over the boy's face at this token of parental affection, the first he ever remembered receiving, and he responded to it with all the intensity of his sensitive and imagina tive nature.

From that moment there awoke in his heart a passionate adoration for the stern father who had passed so cruel a sentence upon him, and he felt that the devotion of his whole life to the fulfilment of his father's commands would not be too great a sacrifice. The Marquis de ITsle pressed his son to his heart, and real fatherly love, which had slumbered all these years, awoke within him, and he realised for the first time that parting from Armand would cost him unexpected pain.

Chapter IV

, SEVERED. " Farewell ! farewell ! And so they passed away." The summer sun arose in splendour, and dispersed the shadows of night. The clouds which had veiled the horizon faded in crimson glory, and nature awoke to welcome the coming day. The bright light fell upon two little sleepers, and aroused them with its morning greeting. One of them sprang up happy with the thought of the wonderful journey which was to begin that day. But the other, for the first time, awoke with a sense of sorrow, a sorrow such as no child should feel, for it was the sorrow which accompanies the knowledge of evil and distrust in mankind. Grief is tiring ; and he rose from his bed slowly and wearily. Hitherto he had always been delighted to watch the break of day, but now for the first time he grieved to see the sunlight.

He crept silently down the broad marble staircase, and let himself out through a window near the ground. He ran quickly until he had left behind his father's domain and had come upon the high road. Then he walked slowly, for he was burdened with the weight of his task. I.'lSLE. In a little while there rose before him a high stone cross, bathed in the crimson morning glow. It was tlieir try sting place, and at its foot sat the little girl. A red hood and cloak covered her glossy black curls and her shoulders. On one side lay a bundle and stick, and on the other stood a great bloodhound, which always accompanied the children on their rambles. Armand stopped, his little heart breaking with grief. Eugenie was waiting for him, and he must go to meet her — meet her for what ? To tell her that she was false ; that he was to become one of those phantoms which had filled their childish hearts with fear ; and that they must part, never, never to meet again.

The little girl, gazing with delight at the rising sun, had not noticed Armand's near approach, but the dog, seeing him, barked a welcome, and Eu genie flew to meet him. " Armand, Armand," she cried ; " isn't it lovely. Let us be quick and start. But what is the matter, Armand ? " for Armand did not speak, and the tears filled his eyes. " Eugenie ; I am so sorry for you," he said. " Sorry for me, Armand ; why ? " she asked in astonishment. " Because you will be a woman ; and my father says that all women are false." " Then I will not be a woman," said Eugenie, promptly. " I am afraid you cannot help it," replied Ar mand, sadly. " Father says that when you grow up you will throw me away like a withered flower and love some one else." The little girl drew up her figure to its full height, and, with childish dignity, she replied, — " I do not believe what Monsieur, your father, says, and I will prove that he is wrong."

" It will be of no use, Eugenie, because I must be a monk." All her pride and dignity vanished in a moment. " Armand, Armand, you must not be a monk," she cried in terror: "how can we be together? How can we learn about everything if you go away . " " Father says that I shall learn in the monastery," said Armand. " Then you will forget all about me," cried the little girl passionately ; " but I shall always love you, whatever they may say." " I shall not forget you, Eugenie," said Armand ; " though I may never see you again, I shall always think of you. I shall always love you." Thus, under the shadow of the old stone cross, the childish vows of constancy were made, and the boy and girl, standing, as it were, on the border land of a new existence, where the path they had trod together now lay divided before them, bade each other a sad farewell, and sorrowfully started on the journey of life alone. p.

Chapter V

A SISTER'S JEALOUSY. The Comte de Lorraine, Eugenie's father, was a gay, selfish man of the world. Before he had come of age he had contracted so many debts that only a rich marriage saved him from ruin. His wife died, leaving him one daughter. The Comte, now free from debt find free to wed again, speedily took advantage of the latter privilege, and, to the indignation of his daughter Madeleine, married a lovely but penniless Italian girl, who became the mother of Eugenie. Again he was left a widower. He had loved his Italian wife as much as his selfish nature was capable of loving, and her death was the greatest grief that he had ever known. As Eugenie resembled her mother, his little daughter always recalled most vividly the memory of his loss ; so, because his pleasure-loving, selfish nature shrank from pain of any description, he banished the child from his presence.