Madeleine : a tale of Auvergne, founded on fact

Front matter

A TALE OF AUVERGNE

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MADELEINE.

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FOUNDED ON FACE.

BY JULIA KAVANAGH.

NEW EDITION.

" For verily I lay unto you, if ye have faith ai a graiu of muitard-ieed, ye 8haU say unto this mountain, Remove hence to yonder place, and it iball remove; and nothing skaU be impoaihlc unio you."— Matth. xvii. 20.

LONDON: CHAPMAN & HALL, 193 PICCADILLY,

Preface

TO THE FIRST EDITION.

Ik placing the following Tale before the public, I feel it necessary to offer a few brief remarks. In the first instance, it is, as the title implies, founded on reality. But though the incidents therein related, and the character of the heroine, owe whatever interest they may possess to truth, the freedom which has been taken with both must nevertheless cause this production to be ranked amongst works of fiction ; as such, therefore, it should be judged.

The object in writing it ' was twofold : to display the great power of Faith, even when exercised by so obscure an individual as a simple peasant girl, and to reveal one of those singular instances of heroic devotedness which often pass unheeded in the humble annals of the poor.

I believe I may safely assert that there is no exaggeration in the character of Madeleine. Her charity, self-denial, and deep faith are no ideal attributes; the real heroine possessed those qualities

PBEEACE. Vll

in an eminent degree, and she accomplished her holy task with a calm and holy simplicity which, I fear, has been imperfectly transferred to the following pages.

In an age which, whatever may be its virtues, cannot, however, justly claim a strong share of faith, it is not, perhaps, quite useless to lay such facts before the public. This Tale may also serve to remind those who are ever ready to upbraid the lower classes for vices which are but the offspring of ignorance and misery, that, if the poor often justify the reproaches of their accusers, they can also redeem their character by displaying, as in this instance, the most noble and sublime virtues.

London; Oct. 1848.

PREFACE

TO THE SECOND EDITION.

A second edition of Madeleine is on the eve of publication.

"Would it were worthier!" I say so sincerely, and free, I hope, from that affectation of modesty which is but a poor vanity after all. But, whilst I read over this tale, and felt how much it owed to the truth that is in it — to the heroic charity and living faith of a simple peasant girl — I regretted not having made better use of that truth, and wished I had been more able to draw from the character I had chosen something of its own quiet power and Berene beauty.

MADELEINE.

CHAPTEE I.

Iff one of the wildest districts of Auvergne there exists a narrow and secluded valley, which seems shut out on every side from the surrounding world by a barrier of high and rugged hills. On one of the southern eminences arises a small village called Mont- Saint- Jean, a name which in the course of time has been extended to the whole valley. Notwithstanding the wild and solitary loveliness of this quiet spot, its existence is scarcely known beyond the mountainous region in which it lies buried, and the travelling artist passes it by, unconscious of the unexplored beauties he is leaving behind him.

The village itself is small and of little importance. Its low, straggling cottages climb up the brow of the Mont-Saint- Jean ; on a high, projecting peak stands the rude and massive little church ; and near it nestles, as though seeking its shelter, a low and still ruder building, known by the dignified name of the " Presbytery." In front of the church there extends an open, uneven space, called the " Place," in the centre of which arises, according to the general custom, a large stone cross. Prom the steps of this cross the eye of the beholder commands a view of the valley, and of a considerable portion of the surrounding country.

"Wild and picturesque mountains, some entirely clothed with the dark pine, others of a deep purple hue, and some again covered with snow, arise on every side ; the shadowy outline of the farthest hills mingling in the distance with the deep blue of the sky. Between those mountains and the Mont-Saint- Jean extend numerous valleys, with solitary dwellings gleaming through woods of fir and mountain ash, and rushing torrents, which come foamingly down from their wild hiding-places in the hills.

The deep and narrow valley of Mont-Saint-Jean is not without its own share of wild and romantic beauty. The rocky heights which enclose it, though barren towards their summits, become everywhere clothed with rich, deep verdure at their base, until the calm and lovely little lake, which sleeps in the lowest hollow, looks from the village on the hill like the last clear drop of water left in the bottom of an. emerald cup. The beauty cf the whole scene is greatly enhanced by its deep solitude. ]N"o human dwelling is to be seen in all the valley ; and, though a few narrow defiles in the hills lead from it to the neighbouring villages, they are so concealed by the thick vegetation through which they wind as to be almost invisible. The village of Mont-Saint- Jean itself scarcely breaks on the solitude of this quiet spot, whence, with the exception of the church on its projecting rock, it is but imperfectly perceived. Though fertile-looking, the valley is in reality inappropriate to agricultural purposes, and for this reason, doubtless, none of the cottagers, whose dwellings are scattered on the neighbouring heights, have chosen to fix their home on its green bosom.

The character of the inhabitants of this secluded region is such as might be expected from the spot in which their life is spent. They are a hardy, halfwild race ; poor, but satisfied with their lot. Their barren hills they look upon as an earthly paradise, and their world literally ends with Mont-Saint- Jean. Their subsistence is chiefly derived by cultivating

MADELEINE. d

the indifferent land around them ; some go in their youth to Paris, or other large cities, where they become fruiterers, retail dealers of coal, water-carriers, &c. ; but, so strong is the love of their native soil, that when they have amassed a sufficient sum of money they invariably return to the place of their birth, there to end their days in peace.

Towards the beginning of the present century, and during the first years of Napoleon's reign, the period when this tale opens, the condition of the villagers of Mont-Saint-Jean was far more precarious than it is now, unenviable as it may still appear. They were plunged in gross ignorance, superstition, and poverty ; and, owing to their hereditary and national obstinacy, did not seem likely to emerge from this deplorable state. Save that they had no rich landlord to tyrannise over them their condition had not been much improved since the middle ages. The great convulsions which had racked the heart of France since then appeared to have passed unheard of in quiet Mont-Saint-Jean, or at least to have left no token of their presence. The cottagers ' knew that something had been changed in the land, but they cared not what it was ; and thus, indifferent to the surrounding world, their life might have been compared to the lake in the valley, as it lay alone in quiet, unpretending beauty, reflecting in its clear waters the surrounding hills, with their woods of pines, and, still spreading above all, the deep blue summer-sky.

It was on the margin of this limpid little sheet of water that two peasants, a man and a woman, might have been seen standing on a lovely Sunday evening in the autumn of the year 18 — . The hour was full of melancholy repose. The deep, cool shadows of evening had already filled the valley, whilst the rays of the setting sun still lingered with a pale golden hue on the rocky heights. The growing twilight gave to this narrow spot vague and indefinite limits which it did not possess in the day-time, when the glad sun-

B 2 phine was abroad, lighting up every nook and crevice. The trees, which grew in fantastic groups along the margin of the lake, now looked in the gathering gloom like the outskirts of mysterious forests plunging amongst wild passes in the hills. The shadows on the bosom of the lake had already become more vast and indistinct, and the faint cry of the distant waterfowl, as it broke on the surrounding stillness, seemed to increase instead of dispelling the repose of that evening hour.

It was, perhaps, the sense of this deep solitude of nature which unconsciously influenced the two individuals already alluded to, and rendered them both thoughtful and silent. The man seemed to be about twenty-five years of age ; he was tall, handsome, and his peasant's dress became him well. The natural expression of his features was evidently mirth and good-humour, but on this day they were clouded and overcast, as though by the shadow of some secret thought. His name was Maurice, and he was a native of Mont-Saint-Jean. He had lost his parents in childhood, and possessed no surviving relatives, but he lived with a farmer in one of the neighbouring valleys as garcon de ferme, or farmer's boy. His companion was Madeleine Guerin, his betrothed, with whom he had been attending vespers in the church of Mont-Saint-Jean, and whom he was now accompanying home. "We have said that they were both standing by the lake ; but the young girl, either through fatigue, or to enjoy the coolness of the evening, had seated herself on a small ledge of rock, whence she gazed abstractedly on the dim recesses of the hills, around which already floated the light mists rising from the water.

Madeleine was a few years younger than her betrothed ; she was delicate and slightly made ; her features had no pretension to beauty ; they cLul not even possess that rustic grace and prettiness which often characterises the peasant girl; her cheek, though clear and healthful, was almost colourless j

MADELEINE. O

her noble, chiselled brow and eyes of a deep azure blue were the only attractions of her meek countenance ; her hair, of a dark, rich brown, was almost completely hidden under her close white cap, and a coarse gray mantle entirely shrouded her figure. Upon the whole, the expression of Madeleine's features was mild and grave, and, though some thought it sorrowful, to keener and more correct observers it told of a calm as deep and serene as that of the lake at her feet ; like it reflecting earthly images, but living beyond them in a world of its own. Madeleine had been sitting for some time on the ledge of the rock, when she turned away her glance from the distant hills on which it had been resting till then, and fixed it on the unconscious Maurice, who, with his arms folded across his breast, seemed plunged in a dark and moody reverie.

"Maurice," said she, in a low yet singularly musical tone, and addressing her betrothed in the dialect of the country, "why are you thoughtful this evening?"

On hearing her words, Maurice started and looked up. " Am I more thoughtful this evening than at any other time ? " he evasively answered.

" No," she calmly replied, " for you have been sad and given to moody thought since the month of June."

Maurice eyed his betrothed with some surprise. "Madeleine," he observed, after a short pause, "explain yourself."

"I will," she gravely replied: "it was in the month of June, at the feast of Saint John, that you first met Rosette Besson."

Maurice coloured deeply, and said, in a displeased tone, " I understand ; you are jealous. I thought we had agreed that there should be confidence between us."

" It is because there must be truth and confidence between us that I speak as I do now," answered Madeleine, with the same calmness, " and that I say again, You are sad since the feast of Saint John, because it was then you saw Eosette Besson, whom you love."

"Madeleine," almost harshly, exclaimed Maurice, " you are a foolish girl ; you know not what you say."

Madeleine sorrowfully shook her head, but replied: "You cannot deceive me, Maurice; seek not to deceive yourself. Do you remember," she added, in a low mournful tone, " my father's death-bed ? "

" Yes, I remember it," gloomily answered Maurice.

"And I see it," continued Madeleine, with a fixed glance, whilst a faint flush crossed her cheek. " My poor father was already speechless, but he signed us to draw near him ; he took my hand, placed it in yours, and, gazing on us with our two hands clasped in his, so died."

" For Heaven's sake, Madeleine," exclaimed Maurice, with feverish impatience, " teaze me not with all this ; you know that, with God's will, we are to be married next spring."

A mild surprise betrayed itself in Madeleine's upraised glance. "What!" said she, with a melancholy smile, " did you not understand me, Maurice ? did you not see that when I said you loved Eosette Besson I meant to tell you you were free, and that my poor father — the peace of heaven be with his soul! — would never have joined our hands had he known that our hearts were asunder ?"

"Madeleine," exclaimed Maurice, who seemed much staggered, "you cannot be in earnest."

" I have told you so already," she calmly replied ; " you are free ; we are no longer betrothed."

" But I do not love Eosette, Madeleine. How could I, since I never saw her but once in all my life?"

" Ay, we have known each other for years," sadly answered Madeleine, " and you have known Eosette only for one fair summer's day ; and yet you love her ! You love me too ; but you would leave me for ever, and never gaze on me again, merely to look upon her! How strange, Maurice, that the love which comes so suddenly should be deeper than that of many years !"

The eyes of Maurice filled with tears. " My own, good Madeleine," he fervently exclaimed, " I will never forsake you."

" Oh, I did not intend reproachiug you, Maurice," gravely said Madeleine ; " the fault is not yours ; I merely meant to say that it was strange it should be so. But, as you love God and truth," she earnestly continued, " lie no more to your own heart, for you cannot lie to me ; I have read it in your every word and glance. You love Rosette : she is good and fair, and I have prayed that she might love you too : but, even were this not to be, we are parted for ever."

Maurice eyed the young girl with surprise ; he had ever looked upon Madeleine as the most gentle and passive of human beings ; as one to whom the word will was unknown ; and he now heard her with astonishment utter her resolve in a tone so decided, and yet so gentle and so meek, that it only rendered her firmness the more apparent.

" But if I forsake you," said he, "you will die with grief, like poor Catherine, when her lover went away last year."

"No," replied Madeleine, with earnest simplicity, " do not think so. I have sorrowed, but my sorrow is past ; and if you are happy with her whom you love, I shall be happy too."

Maurice looked at her doubtfully, as though he mistrusted her words ; but her clear, open countenance bore his scrutinizing gaze without shrinking. A cloud passed over the young man's brow. His pride was hurt, and he bitterly observed, " Madeleine, I now see that you never loved me ; we part not thus from those we love."

" Whether I loved you or not, G-od alone knows," gravely answered Madeleine, slightly colouring ;

"my father joined our hands; and, had I become your wife, I should have done my duty -willingly, and with a cheerful heart. Further than this I cannot tell ; for I have not loved another, to be able to say — that is love, but this is not."

"Oh!" continued Maurice, with increased irritation, " I am glad to see you bear our parting so well : it shows what you felt for me all along."

Madeleine now coloured deeply, and rose. " And what right," said she, in a tone of offended womanly pride, " have you to know whether my heart is sorrowful or at peace ? Is it," she added, with melancholy bitterness, " that you may tell Bosette Besson how well you were beloved by the poor Madeleine, who is not fair like her, and whom you left for her sake ? — Say, Maurice," she reproachfully continued, " is it for this ? "

" Forgive me, Madeleine, forgive me," ejaculated the young man, in a penitent tone ; " you are right, I love Bosette ; but to see you so cold, so altered — I cannot bear it."

" I am not cold, Maurice," kindly said Madeleine. " I love you, and you love me still ; grieve not, therefore, that we part ; I shall be lonely at first, but I shall feel happy again when I know that Bosette Besson loves you ; and indeed she almost said she did."

"Ha! what was it? what did she say?" eagerly asked Maurice.

Madeleine smiled sadly, but gently replied : " She said to me on the feast of Saint John, after dancing with you, that you doubtless had the prettiest girl of Mont-Saint- Jean for your sweetheart ; and when I answered that I was your betrothed, she became thoughtful and spoke no more. Since then she has seemed to avoid me ; and, whenever I address her, coldly turns away. Upon perceiving which, and marking your altered behaviour, I saw clearly that God had destined you for one another, and I re* solved not to oppose His holy will."

" And is this all ?" almost impatiently asked Maurice, whose ear greedily drank in every word she uttered.

" It is all," she meekly said.

Maurice remained thoughtful for a while; then, seeing that Madeleine was standing as though she waited for him to accompany her, he took her arm, and they silently walked homewards, following the margin of the lake. They had not proceeded far, when Maurice began to speak ; his heart was full of Bosette, and, though he endeavoured to check himself, her name often rose to his lips. Madeleine saw that if he refrained from speaking of her whom he loved, it was merely that he might not give her pain ; and a deep, though involuntary sadness, filled her heart, as she felt how lonely now was her lot upon earth.

After walking lor some time along the lake, they took a silent and shady path which led to Madeleine's dwelling, and also to the burial-place of Mont-Saint- Jean, near which it stood. On either side of the narrow and winding way arose a high bank surmounted with trees, whose waving branches met overhead, and even in mid-day shed a kind of hallowed gloom around. As Maurice and Madeleine went along, the evening breeze played gently among the tall poplars and aspens which rose above them, whilst the withered leaves rustled beneath their tread. Accustomed as Maurice was to the subduing melancholy of the place, it now seemed to come over him more strongly than ever, hushing even in his heart the dreams of love and happiness in which he had been indulging. "When they had followed the path for some time, they came to a low, black door, over which arose a wooden cross. This was the gate of the cemetery. The path extended beyond it, winding around the low walls of this place of rest ; but Madeleine and Maurice both seemed to pause instinctively, and went no further.

"Will you go in?" asked Maurice, as he glanced somewhat hesitatingly at the gathering gloom of the sky.

" Yes," she thoughtfully replied, "let us once more pray over his grave together."

Maurice pushed the gate open, and they entered. There was nothing remarkable about the burial-ground of Mont-Saint- Jean, and yet it was a wild and lovely spot. It extended over a grassy slope, and was overshadowed by a few tall pines, which grew on its highest eminence, and flung their broad, waving arms to the wind. The low, ruined wall which enclosed it was overgrown with ivy and other creeping plants ; all the graves were marked by wooden crosses inscribed with the name of the deceased ; there was not a single tomb-stone in the whole spot, which seemed filled with the Sabbath stillness of everlasting rest. Xo human dwelling was visible from this retired place ; it lay as though enshrined in the quiet bosom of the surrounding hills, far from the eye of man, or from aught else that might break on its deep repose and solitude. It was quite solitary when Madeleine and Maurice entered it ; all the mourners had departed with the shadows of evening which now filled the lower hollows, though the rays of the setting sun still lingered among the waving branches of the pines which crowned the height.

Madeleine took a narrow path which wound amongst the lowly hillocks and fallen crosses that marked the more ancient graves, and, after following it for some time, paused on reaching a mound of earth half concealed by thickets of the wild hollyhock. She knelt down near the cross which marked the head of the grave, and her example was followed by Maurice, whose heart was troubled with a remorseful feeling, as he thought of the trust which his adopted father had reposed in him on his deathbed, and of the manner in which he was requiting it now. After a few minutes spent in prayer, Madeleine rose and slowly left the burial-ground, followed by Maurice. They silently resumed the path, which.

by a sudden turning, led them to Madeleine's dwelling, a rustic cot, backed by the same sloping bank over which the cemetery extended, though the trees by which it was partly surrounded prevented it from being discerned. It was in this lonely place that Madeleine had been brought up, and that she had resided since her father's death. When she raised the latch of the door, which had never known lock or key, Maurice paused.

"Farewell, Madeleine," he hesitatingly observed, " we shall soon meet again."

" Nay," replied Madeleine, in a low and earnest tone, " this cannot be ; here we part — not for ever, I trust — but never to meet as we have met. Take it not unkindly that I say to you, Come no more. But my spirit is now at rest ; it is quiet, though alone. I will not tempt Heaven by seeking for pain. I shall pray for you and for her, though I see you not. Farewell."

Maurice attempted to speak, but he could not ; his voice faltered, and the words died unuttered on his lips. He took Madeleine's hand between his own and pressed it, then turned away and departed silently. For a long time Madeleine looked after him, standing motionless on the threshold of her humble home like one wrapped in a thoughtful mood. The sound of his footsteps was at length lost in the distance ; he was gone, and she was now alone. The thought fell upon her heart with singular melancholy, perhaps for the first time in her life. She listened as though to catch the sound of his returning step ; but he came not back, for, though Madeleine knew it not, they were parted for ever.

Chapter II

Madeleine was an orphan ; she had lost her mother in her infancy, and her father had now been dead more than a year. Jacques Gruerin was, during his lifetime, a schoolmaster of the most humble description, even in Auvergne. For nearly thirty years he had resided in the small cottage where Madeleine was born, and in which she now dwelt alone. It consisted of two rooms ; the first and largest was the kitchen, parlour, schoolroom, and even the sleeping apartment of the schoolmaster. The second room was his daughter's ; it overlooked the green churchyard, with its low hillocks and tall pines, and, during the summer-time, the young girl liked to sit spinniug at her wheel near the open window.

From the first room there was a fine view of the neighbouring hills, and of a rude, brawling mountain-stream, that dashed foamingly by within a few yards of the cottage, the only human dwelling that arose on its banks. The whole scene was singularly wild and picturesque ; the old mossy trunk of a tree thrown across the torrent was the only bridge which led to the opposite side, whilst a few weeping birch-trees, which grew along the rugged banks, almost dipped their waving branches into its foaming waters. High and ancient-looking hills that rose on every side gave to this quiet spot an air of additional wildness and solitude. It was here that Madeleine had passed her youth. She seldom went to Mont-Saint- Jean, unless on Sundays, to hear mass and vespers ; her time was chiefly spent at home in order to assist her father, who, not being the regular schoolmaster of the village, had only a few straggling pupils on his side of the hill. As they paid him en nature, that is to say, by small presents of fruit and vegetables, the gains he derived from his school would have proved insufficient for the support of himself and his daughter, but for the produce of a few acres of land which he found time to cultivate, and the unceasing industry of Madeleine, who, when not engaged in attending to the garden belonging to the cottage, was always busy at her wheel.

The young girl had learned all that her father knew, that is to say, how to read, write, and speak French, a language scarcely understood by the villagers, who used the dialect or patois of Auvergne. But this was the sum of Madeleine's knowledge. She had never read but two books in all her life, an abridgment of sacred history and her prayer-book. Her father and his occasional pupils were, as long as the former lived, the only beings besides Maurice with whom she held any intercourse : even to them she spoke little ; her youth seemed devoted to toil and silent thought. This comparatively solitary mode of life developed the innate gravity of Madeleine's character. She could sit for hours spinning at her wheel without uttering a word, and gazing all the time in a dreamy mood on the quiet little churchyard, or on the clear mountain-stream that leaped down from the rocks as if possessed of a living spirit. Though she was silent and loved solitude, Madeleine was not either of a melancholy or of an unsociable disposition. When she sat in the sunshine near her father's door she always had a kind word and still kinder smile for the villagers who might chance to pass by ; but, as she asked no questions and gave brief replies, those conversations, if such they might be called, never lasted long. She seemed, indeed, like one who lived apart in a world of her own ; her wishes were as limited as her literary knowledge ; she had never once in her life been beyond the hill on which the village of Mont- Saint-Jean arose. That there were other villages, and even towns and cities, she knew; she believed in them as we do in any distant country, but she never expressed a wish to visit them. Had she been confined between the torrent and the green churchyard, her inward world of thought would still have been wide and deep enough for her meditative spirit.