Book: Atlantic Monthly, Volume 6, Issue 35, September, 1860

V >> Various >> Atlantic Monthly, Volume 6, Issue 35, September, 1860




At work early and late, Jacqueline had no opportunity of discovering
what was going on in Meaux. But it chanced, on the last day of the last
week in the vineyard, tidings reached her: Martial Mazurier had been
arrested, and would be tried, the rumor said, as John Leclerc had been
tried; and sentence would be pronounced, doubtless, said conjecture,
severe in proportion to the influence the man had acquired, to the
position he held.

Hearing this, oppressed, troubled, yet not doubting, Jacqueline
determined that she would go to Meaux that evening, and so ascertain the
truth. She said nothing to Elsie of her purpose. She was careful in all
things to avoid that which might involve her companion in peril in an
unknown future; but at nightfall she had made herself ready to set
out for Meaux, when her purpose was changed in the first steps by the
appearing of Victor Le Roy.

He had come to Jacqueline,--had but one purpose in his coming; yet it
was she who must say,--

"Is it true, Victor, that Martial Mazurier is in prison?"

His answer surprised her.

"No, it is not true."

But his countenance did not answer the glad expression of her face with
an equal smile. His gravity almost communicated itself to her. Yet this
rebound from her recent dismay surely might demand an opportunity.

"I believe you," said she. "But I was coming to see if it could be true.
It was hard to believe, and yet it has cost me a great deal to persuade
myself against belief, Victor."

"It will cost you still more, Jacqueline. Martial Mazurier has
recanted."

"He has been in prison, then?"

"He has retracted, and is free again,--has denied himself. No more
glorious words from him, Jacqueline, such as we have heard! He has sold
himself to the Devil, you see."

"Mazurier?"

"Mazurier has thought raiment better than life. _He_ has believed a
man's life to consist in the abundance of the things he possesseth,"
said the youth, bitterly. He continued, looking steadfastly at
Jacqueline,--"Probably I must give up the Truth also. My uncle is dead:
must I not secure my possessions?--for I am no longer a poor man; I
cannot afford to let my life fall into the hands of those wolves."

"Mazurier retracted? I cannot believe it, Victor Le Roy!"

"Believe, then, that yesterday the man was in prison, and to-day he is
at large. Yes, he says that he can serve Jesus Christ more favorably,
more successfully, by complying with the will of the bishop and the
priests. You see the force of his argument. If he should be silenced, or
imprisoned long, or his life should be cut off, he would then be able
to preach no more at all in any way. He only does not believe that
whosoever will save his life, in opposition to the law of the
everlasting gospel, must lose it."

"Oh, do you remember what he said to John,--what he prayed in that room?
Oh, Victor, what does it mean?"

"It means what cannot be spoken,--what I dare not say or think."

"Not that we are wrong, mistaken, Victor?"

"No, Jacqueline, never! it can never mean that! Whatever we may do with
the Truth, we cannot make it false. We may act like cowards, unworthy,
ungrateful, ignorant; but the Truth will remain, Jacqueline."

"Victor, you could not desert it."

"How can I tell, Jacqueline? The last time I saw Martial Mazurier, he
would have said nobler and more loving words than I can command. But
with my own eyes I saw him walking at liberty in streets where liberty
for him to walk could be bought only at an infamous price."

"Is there such danger for all men who believe with John Leclerc, and
with--with you, Victor?"

"Yes, there is danger, such danger."

"Then you must go away. You must not stay in Meaux," she said, quickly,
in a low, determined voice.

"Jacqueline, I must remain in Meaux," he answered, as quickly, with
flushed face and flashing eyes. The dignity of conscious integrity, and
the "fear of fear," a beholder who could discern the tokens might have
perceived in him.

"Oh, then, who can tell? Did he not pray that he might not be led into
temptation?"

"Yes," Victor replied, more troubled than scornful,--"yes, and allowed
himself to be led at last."

"But if you should go away"----

"Would not that be flying from danger?" he asked, proudly.

"Nay, might it not be doing with your might what you found to do, that
you might not be led into temptation?"

"And you are afraid, that, if I stay here, I shall yield to them."

"You say you are not certain, Victor. You repeat Mazurier's words."

"Yet shall I remain. No, I will never run away."

The pride of the young fellow, and the consternation occasioned by the
recreancy of his superior, his belief in the doctrines he had confessed
with Mazurier, and the time-serving of the latter, had evidently thrown
asunder the guards of his peace, and produced a sad state of confusion.

"It were better to run away," said Jacqueline, not pausing to choose the
word,--"far better than to stay and defy the Devil, and then find that
you could not resist him, Victor. Oh, if we could go, as Elsie said,
back to Domremy,--anywhere away from this cruel Meaux!"

"Have you, then, gained nothing, Jacqueline?"

"Everything. But to lose it,--oh, I cannot afford that!"

"Let us stand together, then. Promise me, Jacqueline," he exclaimed,
eagerly, as though he felt himself among defences here, with her.

"What shall I promise, Victor?" she asked, with the voice and the look
of one who is ready for any deed of daring, for any work of love.

"I, too, have preached this word."

Her only comment was, "I know you preached it well."

"What has befallen others may befall me."

"Well."

So strongly, so confidently did she speak this word, that the young man
went on, manifestly influenced by it, hesitating no more in his speech.

"May befall me," he repeated.

"'Whosoever believeth in me, though he were dead, yet shall he live,'"
she answered, with lofty voice, repeating the divine word. "What is our
life, that we should hold it at the expense of his Truth? Mazurier was
wrong. He can never atone for the wrong he has done."

"I believe it!" exclaimed Victor, with a brightening countenance. The
clouds of doubt rose from his face and floated away, as we see the mists
ascending from the heights, when we are so happy as to live in the wild
hill-country. "You prize Truth more than life. Stand with me in this,
Jacqueline. Speak of this Truth as it has come to me. You are all that
I have left. I have lost Mazurier. Jacqueline, you are a woman, but you
never,--yes! yes! though I dare not say as much of myself, I dare say
it of you,--you never could have bought your liberty at such a price as
Martial has paid. I know not how, even with the opportunity, he will
ever gain the courage to speak of these things again,--those great
mysteries which are hidden from the eyes of the covetous and worldly and
unbelieving. Promise, stand with me, Jacqueline, and I will rely on you.
Forsake me not."

"Victor, has He not said, who can best say it, 'I will never leave you
nor forsake you'?"

"But, Jacqueline, I love you."

Having said these words, the face of the young man emerged wholly from
the eclipse of the former shadow.

"What is this?" said the brave peasant from Domremy, manifestly doubting
whether she had heard aright; and her clear pure eyes were gazing full
on Victor Le Roy, actually looking for an explanation of his words.

"I love you, Jacqueline," he repeated. "And I do not involve you in
danger, oh, my friend! Only let me have it to believe that my life is
dear to Jacqueline, and I shall not be afraid then to lose it, if that
testimony be required of me. Shall we not stand side by side, soldiers
of Christ, stronger in each other than in all the world beside? Shall it
not be so, Jacqueline? True heart, answer me! And if you will not love
me, at least say, say you are my friend, you trust me. I will hold your
safety sacred."

"I am your friend, Victor."

"Say my wife, Jacqueline. I honored you, that you came from Domremy.
You are my very dream of Joan,--as brave and as true as beautiful.
Jacqueline, it is not all for the Truth's sake, but for my love's sake.
Is not our work one, moreover? Are we not one in heart and purpose,
Jacqueline? You are alone; let me protect you."

He needed no other answer than he had while his eyes constantly sought
hers. Her calm look, the dignity and strength of her composure, assured
him of all he longed to learn,--assured him that their hearts, even as
their purposes and faith, were one."

"But speak one word," he urged.

The word she spoke was, "I can be true to you, Victor."

Won hardly by a word: too easily, you think? She loved the youth, my
friends, and she loved the Truth for which he dared not say that he
could sacrifice himself.

"We are one, then," said Victor Le Roy. "It concerned me above all
things to prove that, Jacqueline. So you shall have no more to do with
these harvest-fields and vineyards henceforth, except to eat of the
fruits, if God will. You have borne all the burden and heat of labor you
shall ever bear. I can say that, with God's blessing. We shall sit under
our own vine. Death in one direction has prepared for life in another.
I inherit what my uncle can make use of no longer. We shall look out
on our own fields, our harvests; for I think this city will keep us no
longer than may he needful. We will go away into Picardy, and I will
show you where our Joan was a prisoner; and we will go back to Domremy,
and walk in the places she loved, and pray God to bless us by that
fountain, and in the grave-yard where your father and mother sleep. Oh,
Jacqueline, is it not all blessed and all fair?"

She could hardly comprehend all the brightness of this vision which
Victor Le Roy would fain bring before her. The paths he pointed out to
her were new and strange; but she could trust him, could believe that
together they might walk without stumbling.

She had nothing to say of her unfitness, her unworthiness, to occupy the
place to which he pointed. Not a doubt, not a fear, had she to express.
He loved her, and that she knew; and she had no thought of depreciating
his choice, its excellency or its wisdom. Whatever excess of wonder she
may have felt was not communicated. How know I that _she_ marvelled at
her lover's choice, though all the world might marvel?

Then remembering Mazurier, and thinking of her strength of faith, and
her high-heartedness, he was eager that Jacqueline should appoint their
marriage-day. And more than he, perhaps, supposed was betrayed by this
haste. He made his words profoundly good. Strong woman that she was, he
wanted her strength joined to his. He was secretly disquieted, secretly
afraid to trust himself, since this defection of Martial Mazurier.

What did hinder them? They might be married on Sunday, if she would:
they might go down together to the estate, which he must immediately
visit.

Through the hurry of thought, and the agitation of heart, and the rush
of seeming impossibilities, he brought out at length in triumph her
consent.

She did consent. It should all be as he wished. And so they parted
outside that town of Meaux on the fair summer evening.--plighted
lovers,--hopeful man and woman. For them the evening sky was lovely with
the day's last light; for them the serene stars of night arose.

So they parted under the open sky: he going forward to the city,
strengthened and refreshed in faith and holy courage; she, adorned with
holy hopes which never until now had found place among her visions.
Neither was she prepared for them; until he brought them to a heart
which, indeed, could never be dismayed by the approach and claim of
love.

Love was no strange guest. Fresh and fair as Zephyrus, he came from the
forest depths, and she welcomed him,--no stranger,--though the breath
that bore him was all heavenly, and his aspiration was remote from
earthly sources. Yes, she so imagined.

She went back to the cottage where she and Elsie lodged now, to tell
Elsie what had happened,--to thankfulness,--to gazing forward Into a
new world,--to aspiration, expectation, joy, humility,--to wonder, and
to praise,--to all that my best reader will perceive must be true of
Jacqueline on this great evening of her life.


X.


That same night Victor Le Roy was arrested on charge of
heresy,--arrested and imprisoned. Watchmen were on the look-out when the
lover walked forward with triumphant steps to Meaux.

"This fellow also was among the wool-comber's disciples," said they; and
their successful dealing with Mazurier encouraged the authorities to
hope that soon all this evil would be overcome,--trampled in the dust:
this impudent insurrection of thought should certainly be stifled; youth
and age, high station, low, should be taught alike of Rome.

Tidings reached Martial Mazurier next day of what had befallen Victor Le
Roy, and he went instantly to visit him in prison. It was an interview
which the tender-hearted officials would have invited, had he not
forestalled them by inviting himself to the duty. Mazurier had something
to do in the matter of reconciling his conscience to the part he had
taken, in his recent opportunity to prove himself equally a hero with
Leclerc. He had recanted, done evil, in short, that good might come; and
was not content with having done this thing: how should he be? Now that
his follower was in the same position, he had but one wish,--that he
should follow his example. He did not, perhaps, entirely ascertain his
motive in this; but it is hardly to be supposed that Mazurier was so
persuaded of the justice of his course that he desired to have it
imitated by another under the same circumstances.

No! he was forever disgraced in his own eyes, when he remembered the
valiant John Leclerc; and it was not to be permitted that Victor Le Roy
should follow the example of the wool-comber in preference to that
he had given,--that politic, wise, blood-sparing, flesh--loving,
truth-depreciating, God-defrauding example.

Accordingly he lost no time in seeking Victor in his cell. It was the
very cell in which he himself had lately been imprisoned. Within those
narrow walls he had meditated, prayed, and made his choice. There he had
stood face to face with fate, with God, with Jesus, and had decided--not
in favor of the flogging, and the branding, and the glorious infamy.
There, in spite of eloquence and fervor and devotion, in spite of all
his past vows and his hopes, he had decided to take the place and part
of a timeserver;--for he feared disgrace and pain, and the hissing
and scoff and persecution, more than he feared the blasting anger of
insulted and forsaken Truth.

He found Victor within his cell, his bright face not overcast with
gloom, his eyes not betraying doubts, neither disappointed, astonished,
nor in deep dejection. The mood he deemed unfavorable for his special
word,--poor, deceived, self-deceiving Mazurier!

He was not merely surprised at these indications,--he was at a loss. A
little trepidation, doubt, suspicion would have better suited him. Alas!
and was _his_ hour the extremity of another's weakness, not in the
elevation of another's spiritual strength? Once when he preached the
Truth as moved by the Holy Ghost, it was not to the prudence or the
worldly wisdom of his hearers he appealed, but to the higher feelings
and the noblest powers of men. Then he called on them to praise God by
their faith in all that added to His glory and dominion. But now his
eloquence was otherwise directed,--not full of the old fire and
enthusiasm,--not trustful in God, but dependent on prudence, as though
all help were in man. He had to draw from his own experience now,
things new and old,--and was not, by confession of the result of such
experience, humiliated!

"You are under a mistake," was his argument. "You have not gone deep
into these matters; you have made acquaintance only with the agitated
surface of them." And he proceeded to make good all this assertion, it
was so readily proven! _He_ also had been beguiled,--ah, had he not? He
had been beguiled by the rude eloquence, the insensibility to pain, the
pride of opposition, the pride of poverty, the pride of a rude nature,
exhibited by John Leclerc.

He acknowledged freely, with a fatal candor, that, until he came to
consider these things in their true light, when shut away from all
outward influences, until compelled to quiet meditation beyond the reach
and influence of mere enthusiasm, he had believed with Leclerc, even as
Victor was believing now. He could have gone on, who might tell to what
fanatical length? had it not been for that fortunate arrest which made a
sane man of him!

Leclerc was not quite in the wrong,--not absolutely,--but neither was
he, as Mazurier had once believed, gloriously in the right. It was
clearly apparent to him, that Victor Le Roy, having now also like
opportunity for calm reflection, would come to like conclusions.

With such confident prophecy, Mazurier left the young man. His visit was
brief and hurried;--no duty that could be waived should call him away
from his friend at such a time; but he would return; they would speak of
this again; and he kissed Victor, and blessed him, and went out to bid
the authorities delay yet before the lad was brought to trial, for he
was confident, that, if left to reflection, he would come to his senses,
and choose wisely--between God and Mammon? Mazurier expressed it in
another way.

* * * * *

In the street, Elsie Meril heard of Victor's arrest, and she brought the
news to Jacqueline. They had returned to Meaux, to their old lodging,
and a day had passed, during which, moment by moment, his arrival was
anticipated. Elsie went out to buy a gift for Jacqueline, a bit of fine
apparelling which she had coveted from the moment she knew Jacqueline
should be a bride. She stole away on her errand without remark, and
came back with the gift,--but also with that which made it valueless,
unmentionable, though it was a costly offering, purchased with the wages
of more than a week's labor in the fields.

It was almost dark when she returned to Jacqueline. Her friend was
sitting by the window,--waiting,--not for her; and when she went in to
her, it was silently, with no mention of her errand or her love-gift.
Quietly she sat down, thankful that the night was falling, waiting for
its darkness before she should speak words which would make the darkness
to be felt.

"He does not come," said Jacqueline, at length.

"Did you think it was he, when I came up the stairs?" inquired Elsie,
tenderly.

"Oh, no! I can tell your step from all the rest."

"His, too, I think."

"Yes, and his, too. My best friends. Strange, if I could not!"

"Oh, I'm glad you said that, Jacqueline!"

"My best friends," repeated Jacqueline,--not merely to please Elsie.
Love had opened wide her heart,--and Elsie, weak and foolish though
she might be,--Elsie, her old companion, her playmate, her
fellow-laborer,--Elsie, who should be to her a sister always, and share
in her good-fortune,--Elsie had honorable place there.

"Could anything have happened, Jacqueline?" said Elsie, trembling: her
tremulous voice betrayed it.

"Oh, I think not," was the answer.

"But he is so fearless,--he might have fallen into--into trouble."

"What have you heard, Elsie?"

This question was quietly asked, but it struck to the heart of the
questioned girl. Jacqueline suspected!--and yet Jacqueline asked so
calmly! Jacqueline could hear it,--and yet how could this be declared?

Her hesitation quickened what was hardly suspicion into a conviction.

"What have you heard?" Jacqueline again questioned,--not so calmly as
before; and yet it was quite calmly, even to the alarmed ear of Elsie
Meril.

"They have arrested Victor, Jacqueline."

"For heresy?"

"I heard it in the street."

Jacqueline arose,--she crossed the chamber,--her hand was on the latch.
Instantly Elsie stood beside her.

"What will you do? I must go with you, Jacqueline."

"Where will you go?" said Jacqueline.

"With you. Wait,--what is it you will do? Or,--no matter, go on, I will
follow you,--and take the danger with you."

"Is there danger? For him there is! and there might be for you,--but
none for me. Stay, Elsie. Where shall I go, in truth?"

Yet she opened the door, and began to descend the stairs even while she
spoke; and Elsie followed her.

First to the house of the wool-comber. John was not at home,--and his
mother could tell them nothing, had heard nothing of the arrest of
Victor. Then to the place which Victor had pointed out to her as the
home of Mazurier. Mazurier likewise they failed to find. Where, then,
was the prison of Le Roy's captivity? That no man could tell them; so
they came home to their lodging at length in the dark night, there to
wait through endless-seeming hours for morning.

On the Sunday they had chosen for their wedding-day Mazurier brought
word of Victor to Jacqueline,--was really a messenger, as he announced
himself, when she opened for him the door of her room in the fourth
story of the great lodging-house. He had come on that day with a
message; but it was not in all things--in little beside the love it was
meant to prove--the message Victor had desired to convey. In want of
more faithful, more trustworthy messenger, Le Roy sent word by this man
of his arrest,--and bade Jacqueline pray for him, and come to him, if
that were possible. He desired, he said, to serve his Master,--and, of
all things, sought the Truth.

To go to the prisoner, Mazurier assured Jacqueline, was impossible, but
she might send a message; indeed, he was here to serve his dear friends.
Ah, poor girl, did she trust the man by whom she sent into a prison
words like these?--

"Hold fast to the faith that is in you, Victor. Let nothing persuade you
that you have been mistaken. We asked for light,--it was given us,--let
us walk in it; and no matter where it leads,--since the light is from
heaven. Do not think of me,--nor of yourself,--but only of Jesus Christ,
who said, 'Whosoever would save his life shall lose it.'"

Mazurier took this message. What did he do with it? He tossed it to the
winds.

A week after, Le Roy was brought to trial,--and recanted; and so
recanting, was acquitted and set at liberty.

Mazurier supposed that he meant all kindly in the exertion he made to
save his friend. He would never have ceased from self-reproach, had he
conveyed the words of Jacqueline to Victor,--for the effect of those
words he could clearly foresee.

And so far from attempting to bring about an interview between the pair,
he would have striven to prevent it, had he seen a probability that it
would be allowed. He set little value on such words as Jacqueline spoke,
when her conscience and her love rose up against each other. The
words she had committed to him he could account for by no supposition
acceptable and reasonable to him. There was something about the girl he
did not understand; she was no fit guide for a man who had need of clear
judgment, when such a decision was to be made as the court demanded of
Le Roy.

Elsie Meril, between hope and fear, was dumb in these days; but her
presence and her tenderness, though not heroic in action nor wise in
utterance, had a value of which neither she nor Jacqueline was fully
aware.

When Jacqueline learned the issue of the trial, and that Victor had
falsified his faith, her first impulse was to fly, that she might never
see his face again. For, the instant she heard his choice, her heart
told her what she had been hoping during these days of suspense. She had
tried to see Martial Mazurier, but without success, since he conveyed,
or promised to convey, her message to the prisoner. Of purpose he had
avoided her. He guessed what strength she would by this time have
attained, and he was determined to save both to each other, though it
might be against their will.


XI.


Victor Le Roy's first endeavor, on being liberated, was--of course to
find Jacqueline? Not so. That was far from his first design. His impulse
was to avoid the girl he had dared to love. Mazurier had, indeed,
conveyed to his mind an impression that would have satisfied him, if
anything of this character could do so. But this was impossible. The
secret of his disquiet was far too profound for such easy removal.

He had not in himself the witness that he had fulfilled the will of God.
He was disquieted, humiliated, wretched. He could not think of Leclerc,
nor upon his protestations, except with shame and remorse,--remorse,
already. In his heart, in spite of the impression Mazurier had contrived
to convey, he believed not that Jacqueline would bless him to such
work as he could henceforth perform, no longer a free man,--no longer
possessed of liberty of speech and thought.

He had no sooner renounced his liberty than he became persuaded, by an
overwhelming reasoning, as he had never been convinced before, of
the pricelessness of that he had sacrificed. When he went from the
court-room, from the presence of his judges, he was not a free man,
though the dignitaries called him so. Martial Mazurier walked arm in arm
with him, but the world was a den of horrors, a blackened and accursed
world, to the young man who came from prison, free to use his
freedom--as the priests directed!

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