Stray Pearls: Memoirs of Margaret De Ribaumont, Viscountess of Bellaise by Yonge (management books to read .TXT) 📗

through the Porte St. Antoine without the loss of one wounded man or a single gun. Mademoiselle, having seen the effect of her cannon, came down again to provide for wine and food being sent to the exhausted soldiers, who had been fighting all day in such scorching heat that we heard that at the first moment of respite, M. le Prince hurried into an orchard, took off every fragment of clothing, and rolled about on the grass under the trees to cool himself after the intolerable heat.

Just as I emerged from the court of the Bastille, some one touched me, and said, ‘Pardon me, Madame,’ and, looking round, I saw M. Darpent, with his hat in his hand. ‘Madame,’ he entreated, ‘is it possible to you to come to poor M. d’Aubepine? I have fetched her to her husband, but there will be piteous work when his wound is visited, and she will need all the support that can be given to her. My mother and sister are doing all in their power, but they have many other patients on their hands.’

I hurried to my Princess, and with some difficulty obtained a hearing. She called up M. Darpent, and made him tell her the names of all the five sufferers that he and his sister had taken into the Verdon house, and how they were wounded, for Conde’s followers being almost all noble, she knew who every one was. Two were only slightly wounded, but two were evidently dying, and as none of their friends were within reach, Madame Darpent and her daughter were forced to devote themselves to these, though fortunately they had not been brought in till her son had piloted M. d’Aubepine through the crowded streets—poor little Cecile! who had hardly ever set foot on the pavement before. Her Count was in a terrible state, his right leg having been torn off by a cannon-ball below the knee, and he would have bled to death long before reaching home had not Clement Darpent observed his condition and taken him into the house, where Madame had enough of the hereditary surgical skill acquired in the civil wars to check the bleeding, and put a temporary dressing on the wounds until a doctor could be obtained; for, alas! they were only too busy on that dreadful day.

Mademoiselle consented to part with me when she had heard all, suddenly observing, however, as she looked at Darpent: ‘But, Monsieur, are you not the great Frondeur with ideas of your own? Did not this same d’Aubepine beat you soundly? Hein! How is it that you are taking him in—? Your enemy, is he not?’

‘So please your Royal Highness, we know no enemies in wounded men,’ replied Darpent, bowing.

Her attention was called off, and she said no more, as Clement and I hastened away as fast as we could through a by-street to avoid the march of the troops of Conde, who were choking the Rue St. Antoine, going, however, in good order. He told me on the way that M. d’Aubepine had shown great courage and calmness after the first shock, and after a few questions had hung on his arm through the streets, not uttering a word, though he felt her trembling all over, and she had instantly assumed the whole care of her husband with all the instinct of affection. But as he and his mother felt certain that amputation would be necessary, he had come to fetch me to take care of her.

Fortunately for us, we had not to cross the Rue St. Antoine to enter the Maison Verdon, but Clement opened a small door into the court with a private key, presently knocking at a door and leading me in. Armand d’Aubepine had been the first patient admitted, so his was the chief guest-chamber—a vast room, at the other end of which was a great bed, beside which stood my poor Cecile, seeing nothing but her husband, looking up for a moment between hope and terror in case it should be the surgeon, but scarcely taking in that it was I till I put my arms round her and kissed her; and then she put her finger to her lips, cherishing a hope that because the poor sufferer had closed his eyes and lay still in exhaustion, he might sleep. There he lay, all tinge of colour gone from his countenance, and his damp, dark hair lying about his face, and with my arm round her waist stood watching till he opened his eyes with a start and moan of pain, and cried, as his eye fell on me: ‘Madame! Ah! Is Bellaise safe?’ Then, recollecting himself: ‘Ah no! I forgot! But is he safe—the Prince?’

I told him that the Prince and his army were saved, feeling infinitely touched that his first word should have been of my Philippe, whom he seemed to have forgotten; but indeed it was not so. His next cry was: ‘Oh! Madame, Madame, would that this were Freiburg! Would that I could die as Philippe die! Oh! help me!’

Cecile threw herself forward, exclaiming, in broken words, that he must not say so; he would not die.

‘You, too,’ he said, ‘you, too—the best wife in the world—whom I have misused—Ah! that I could begin all over again!’

‘You will—you will, my most dear!’ she cried. ‘Oh! the wound will cure.’

And, strange mixture that he was, he moaned that he should only be a poor maimed wretch.

Darpent now brought in a priest, fresh from giving the last Sacrements to the two mortally-wounded men. The wife looked at him in terror, but both he and Clement gently assured her that he was not come for that purpose to M. la Comte, but to set his mind at rest by giving him absolution before the dressing of the wound. Of course it was a precaution lest he should sink under the operation; and as we led her from the bedside, Clement bade me not let her return as yet.

But that little fragile creature was more entirely the soul of Love than any other being I have known. She did, indeed, when we had her in Madame Verdon’s little oratory hard by, kneel before the crucifix and pray with me, but her ear caught, before mine, the departing steps of the priest, and the entering ones of the surgeon. She rose up, simply did not listen to my persuasions, but walked in with quiet dignity. Madame Darpent was there, and would have entreated her to retire, but she said: ‘This is a wife’s place.’ And as she took his hands she met a look in his eyes which I verily believe more than compensated to her for all the years of weary pining in neglect. The doctor would have ordered her off, but she only said: ‘I shall not cry, I shall no faint.’ And they let her keep his hand, though Clement had to hold him. I waited, setting our hostess free to attend to one of her dying charges, from whom she could ill be spared.

And Cecile kept her word, though it was a terrible time, for there was no endurance in poor Armand’s shallow nature, and his cries and struggles were piteous. He could dare, but not suffer, and had not both she and Clement been resolute and tranquil, the doctor owned that he could not have succeeded.

‘But Madame la Comtesse is a true heroin,’ he said, when our patient was laid down finally, tranquil and exhausted, to be watched over through the night.

The time that followed was altogether the happiest of all my poor sister-in-law’s married life. Her husband could hardly bear to lose sight of her for a moment, or to take anything from any hand save hers. If Madame Darpent had not absolutely taken the command of both she would