Chapter VII · The Rescue

Marie of Chafleur had borne her imprisonment with unshaken courage. She was resolved that she would not be forced to take the vow, and though she suffered greatly in her damp, gloomy prison,—she who could still take childish delight in every little flower,—she remained true to her resolution.

The Abbess, who had been so favorably impressed by her when they first met, was still more impressed by her firmness, and gave her permission to visit her. Upon one such occasion the abbess kindly said: “You grieve me, my daughter. Your obstinacy may compel me to adopt severe measures.”

Marie made no reply. She was looking out of the open window at the garden, which was now in full bloom, and was so absorbed with the view that she did not hear the Abbess. Her face was all aglow with excitement, her eyes sparkled, and she gleefully clapped her hands. “Oh, how beautiful, how beautiful!” she cried, approaching nearer to the window. “Oh, if I could but be among those flowers!”

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“You are childish,” said the Abbess, without manifesting displeasure, however. “Listen, and pay attention to what I say.”

Marie wiped away her rising tears and looked into the Abbess’s face. “It is not very long ago that you were as young as I,” she said, “and, oh, how beautiful you must have been without that veil! Tell me, have you never enjoyed yourself in the flowery meadows? Have you never chased the pretty butterflies, never listened to the songs of the birds, never breathed the fragrance of the flowers? Oh, tell me.”

“Why do you call up such recollections, child?”

“Oh, yes, I know you have, and so you can understand me when I tell you it is impossible for me to stay within these walls. I must go. Surely, noble lady, you will not keep me here any longer. Oh, open the doors and let me out. I will go on foot and travel through the country all alone until I find my uncle. And even should I not find him, and have to suffer hunger, thirst, cold, and heat, still I should be happy. So once more, noble lady, I implore you to let me go.”

“Child, child, you are asking impossibilities of me.”

“Why impossible?”

“You have no idea of the implicit obedience required of us.”

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“But, noble lady, your vows and your discipline only bind you in your relations to the convent life, not to the outer world.”

“You are mistaken, my daughter. We owe unquestioning obedience in all things to our superiors. Whatever they demand of us is right. It is not for us to question or decide.”

“How is that, noble lady? Having dedicated yourself to Heaven, can you blindly follow human dictation?”

“Child, the will of the Church, to which we bow, is the will of Heaven.”

“I do not understand that.”

“That is because you are not in the right spirit to understand it.”

“That may be true, but I am sure of one thing.”

“What is that?”

“That you would not poison me even if you were ordered to do so.”

“Child,” said the astonished Abbess, “what put such a dreadful thought as that in your mind?”

“Because, though unconsciously, you have really begun to do it.”

“You shock me! What do you mean? That I would poison—”

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“The poison of the prison atmosphere, noble lady, is just as surely killing me as if it were real poison. So again I implore you to let me go. Do not degrade yourself by becoming a party to the shameful conspiracy which has been planned against me.”

The Abbess might have replied to Marie at more length, but she was too thoroughly convinced of the truth of her words and the injustice which had been practised toward her to do so; and besides this, Marie’s sweetness of nature and childish ways won more and more not only her sympathy but her affection.

“I cannot give you your freedom, my daughter,” she replied, “but I will do all I can for you. You may stay in the garden during the day, but when the Bishop is here you will have to go back to the prison. Perhaps mildness may accomplish more than severity. It is because of this hope, bear in mind, that I make this concession. Now go. Here is the key to the garden.”

Marie fervently kissed her hand and ran off. The Abbess went to the window and thoughtfully watched her. The joyful expression of her face showed that her heart approved what her reason and sense of duty half condemned.

Marie’s life now grew more cheerful, for the Abbess kept her word. She not only allowed her to go daily to the garden, but she admitted her to her confidence. Of course she had not the slightest idea that this would induce her to join the order, but she reasoned that if their relations became intimate she would not suspect any such purpose.

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John of Luxemburg all this time was administering affairs as if he were the lawful owner of Marie’s property, and so far ignored all her rights that after deducting the comparatively small sum due to the Bishop, he put the rest of the receipts into his own pocket without further ceremony. It actually seemed as if the two men little by little might yet accomplish their purpose. Though Marie felt very happy when she first set foot in the convent garden and the Abbess treated her so affectionately, yet the roses on her cheeks began to fade, and when she was alone in her narrow prison during the Bishop’s visits her sorrowful sighs showed she was not in her usual cheerful spirits. Even in the garden her joyousness would vanish whenever she came near the high wall which surrounded it. The consciousness that she was a prisoner embittered every joy, and at last even made the garden unenjoyable. In this sad frame of mind the scenes of her childhood seemed to her like bright spots in a lost paradise. As she recalled the happiness of that paradise, the more keenly she realized the injustice which had driven her out of it. During that day when all Rouen was witnessing the awful spectacle in the old market-place, she sat more sorrowful than usual in her prison. Of course she did not know what was going on, for no news from the outer world ever found its way within the convent walls. Whatever the cause may have been, whether her confinement this time had been longer than usual, or whether she had painted the lost happiness of her childhood in too lively colors, she was more unhappy than usual.

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“My God! My God!” she moaned, “hast Thou utterly forsaken me? What crime have I committed that calls for such a frightful expiation? If I am guiltless why should godless men triumph? And you, my uncle! Is it because you are dead that your help is so long delayed? Oh! you brave one, who all alone confronted those robbers in the forest! Why wait you so long? Have you been mistaken? Am I not the one for whom you dared so much? Oh, be quiet, foolish heart, lest I persuade myself I really am that one.”

She gradually regained her composure, smiled through her tears, and lost herself in fancies of another kind. At last, scared by her own thoughts, she resumed: “O thou Blessed Virgin, protect him! Keep him far away from here. Those against whom he would contend single-handed are too strong for him. Protect him.”

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As she spoke the last words there was a slight noise at the door. “They are coming to let me out,” she said to herself; “the Bishop has gone.” She wiped away her tears and stepped forward. The door opened, but it was a man’s figure that she saw in the dim light, not the sister keeper.

“Is it you, Marie of Chafleur?” the stranger whispered, for he could see nothing in the prison.

“My God! what is it? Who are you?” said the terrified girl in a low voice.

“Be quiet,” whispered the stranger. “If you are Marie of Chafleur, take this bundle. It contains a page’s dress. Hasten! I will watch outside.”

The poor girl trembled like an aspen leaf, but she took the bundle. She stood for a few seconds as if dazed, but quickly made her decision and stepped back into the prison. It was some time before she could make the change of costume, for her trembling hands were not as deft as usual, but at last she went out into the passage in her disguise.

“Give me all your clothes,” whispered the stranger, “for if they are left here they will betray you.”

Marie fetched them to him, and after making a bundle of them exactly like the one he had brought, he took the trembling girl by the hand and led her to the church door. Then he listened. All was still. “Softly, softly,” he murmured as they left the church.

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Who can picture Marie’s glad surprise as she looked by daylight into the face of her protector for whose safety she had just before invoked the Virgin? There was little time for sentiment, however, for scarcely had Jean closed the door when they heard voices and steps in the street. He drew Marie down quickly, and they knelt together as if engaged in their devotions, while he listened intently to every sound near the entrance; but the steps they had heard were those of passers-by. Jean whispered, “I believe we have succeeded. Let us thank the Holy Virgin and Saint Ursula.” With tremulous voices they murmured their gratitude, and then Jean said in a low tone: “Do you feel strong enough, noble lady, to go on alone?”

“Oh, I will be as strong as a man when away, far away from here,” she answered.

“I will take the lead,” said Jean. “Follow me at some little distance, so no one shall suspect we are acquainted with each other. The whole city is in commotion and crowded with strangers on account of the execution. They will not pay much attention to us. Do not look around much, lest some one may recognize you. Keep your eyes downcast, and they will think you have been overcome by the dreadful spectacle. In this way we may pass through the gate like the other strangers on their way home, and after that the Holy Virgin will help us the rest of the way.”

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Jean arose and left the church, and Marie followed his instructions. Everything turned out as Jean had said. The two met many groups standing on the walks or passing along the streets, and at last safely got through the gate. Marie could scarcely restrain her exultation, but Jean went calmly on, hurrying to the forest as fast as she could follow him. Marie’s joy increased as she felt sure that she was rescued, for she could not believe that a trace had been left which would reveal the manner of her escape. She looked around, and finding that no one was following them, she gave expression to her happiness.

“My noble rescuer,” she said, “I cannot longer keep silence and conduct myself like a Capuchin. It is inconsistent with my costume, you know. I must exult; I must shout, or I shall die right here before you—”

“Not yet,” said Jean, without turning round. “It is not the time for shouting, still less for dying. We are not safe yet, though the most difficult part of our undertaking has been accomplished. Your exultation would be noticed from the city, and then there would be much curiosity among the pages to find out who it was that was so greatly pleased over the horrible spectacle. During the next few days they will move heaven and earth to catch the fugitive. Then some one will be certain to remember the exulting page of to-day.”

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Jean’s advice made such an impression upon Marie that she restrained herself; but when she found herself within the shelter of the forest and Jean waiting for her, she could no longer keep still. She flew rather than ran over the green carpet. Her feelings overcame her when for the first time she found herself in Nature’s majestic temple and felt its subtle and mysterious magic. She fell upon her knees and poured out a very passion of gratitude to Heaven. She thanked the Virgin for the happiness of which she had been so long deprived, for her rescue, and especially for the protection which had been given to her rescuer. Then she turned to Jean, and her tearful eyes betrayed the emotions of her heart.

“I have no words with which to thank you, gallant knight,” said she.

“Oh, my noble lady,” replied Jean, “if you only knew how happy it has made me to have brought you thus far, you would think me recompensed even too richly. But let us first think of the joy this will bring to the noble La Hire.”

“What!” exclaimed Marie, “are you taking me to La Hire?”

“Yes! But let us hurry on, so that we may get out of the English district before the news of your flight is spread abroad.”

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They went on again, and shortly met the peasants with whom Jean had left his horse. He bought another for Marie, and they rode off together. Once more he safely travelled the dangerous road, and on the next day they had passed the last city occupied by the English. They met with no difficulties during the rest of the journey, and after changing their costumes at the lodgings in Chinon, Jean took Marie to La Hire’s apartment.

La Hire was not aware of their arrival at the inn. He was greatly excited, for he had just heard the news of Joan’s death. Aroused to the highest pitch of fury, he had cursed her enemies, then flung himself into a chair, and seriously debated whether he should not break his sword rather than serve such a King longer. He was of too noble a nature, however, to come to such a decision. There were enemies of the fatherland yet to fight, and he had some other duties to accomplish. He had just made his decision, when he heard a well-known voice behind him.

“Here, noble sir, is Marie of Chafleur.”

The knight sprang up. Words cannot describe his joy. He stood like a statue, with his eyes fixed upon her.

“What!” he exclaimed at last, “is this charming girl the little Marie, my sister’s child?” He opened wide his arms, and she flew to his embrace. He kissed her hair, and lovingly stroked her cheeks.

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“My poor child,” he gently said, “how you must have suffered!” Marie only answered with a sigh.

“You shall tell me all about it some other time. Be quiet now, my daughter. From now on no one shall harm a hair of your head. And this Luxemburg! By Saint George, he shall make reparation to me for every tear you have shed.”

He resumed his seat, and then turned to Jean.

“Come to my heart, my son. I knew that you were as brave and determined and valiant as any one, but I did not believe you would bring this child back. I am anxious to know how you did it, but just now I am too full under my doublet to listen. I believe there are tears running down my beard. I don’t know when that ever happened before. It must be because this is a real heart’s joy you have given me, my boy. Yes, yes, you and poor Joan have both shown what resolute purpose can do when it is persisted in to the end. Children,” he exclaimed to both of them, “you have made me young again. The end will be fine. Just now I determined to fight the English still longer, and I know,” with a look at Jean, “who will be with me. But that is not the end I mean. That is only the common duty. I know a finer end than that.” He looked with joyous eyes from Jean to Marie, and from Marie to Jean. “Yes, a finer end than that, and by Saint George I will accomplish it.”

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The valiant knight did accomplish it. Just two years from that day he stood on the steps of a lordly castle, happier perhaps than he had ever been before in his life, and watched a carriage which was coming toward the castle amid the enthusiastic shouts of the peasants. In this carriage the lawful owner of the castle was making his entrance to take possession, for the English had been driven out of that whole region.

The master of the castle was Jean Renault, and by his side sat his happy spouse, Marie of Chafleur.

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