FOUR YEARS AFTER.
Four years had elapsed, since the events we have just related, when Gabriel de Rennepont wrote the following letter to Abbe Joseph Charpentier, curate of the Parish of Saint-Aubin, a hamlet of Sologne:
"Springwater Farm, "June 2d, 1836.
"Intending to write to you yesterday, my bear Joseph, I seated myself at the little old black table, that you will remember well.My window looks, you know, upon the farmyard, and I can see all that takes place there.These are grave preliminaries, my friend, but I am coming to the point.I had just taken my seat at the table, when, looking from the window, this is what I saw.You, my dear Joseph, who can draw so well, should have been there to have sketched the charming scene.The sun was sinking, the sky serene, the air warm and balmy with the breath of the hawthorn, which, flowering by the side of a little rivulet, forms the edge which borders the yard.Under the large pear-tree, close to the wall of the barn, sat upon the stone bench my adopted father, Dagobert, that brave and honest soldier whom you love so much.He appeared thoughtful, his white head was bowed on his bosom; with absent mind, he patted old Spoil-sport, whose intelligent face was resting on his master's knees.By his side was his wife, my dear adopted mother, occupied with her sewing; and near them, on a stool, sat Angela, the wife of Agricola, nursing her last-born child, while the gentle Magdalen, with the eldest boy in her lap, was occupied in teaching him the letters of the alphabet.Agricola had just returned from the fields, and was beginning to unyoke his cattle, when, struck, like me, no doubt, with this picture, he stood gazing on it for a moment, with his hand still leaning on the yoke, beneath which bent submissive the broad foreheads of his two large black oxen.I cannot express to you, my friend, the enchanting repose of this picture, lighted by the last rays of the sun, here and there broken by the thick foliage.What various and touching types! The venerable face of the soldier--the good, loving countenance of my adopted mother--the fresh beauty of Angela, smiling on her little child--the soft melancholy of the hunchback, now and then pressing her lips to the fair, laughing cheek of Agricola's eldest son--and then Agricola himself, in his manly beauty, which seems to reflect so well the valor and honesty of his heart! Oh, my Friend! in contemplating this assemblage of good, devoted, noble, and loving beings, so dear to each other, living retired in a little farm of our poor Sologne, my heart rose towards heaven with a feeling of ineffable gratitude.This peace of the family circle--this clear evening, with the perfume of the woods and wild flowers wafted on the breeze--this deep silence, only broken by the murmur of the neighboring rill--all affected me with one of these passing fits of vague and sweet emotion, which one feels but cannot express.You well know it, my friend, who, in your solitary walks, in the midst of your immense plains of flowering heath, surrounded by forests of fir trees, often feel your eyes grow moist, without being able to explain the cause of that sweet melancholy, which I, too, have often felt, during those glorious nights passed in the profound solitudes of America.
"But, alas! a painful incident disturbed the serenity of the picture.
Suddenly I heard Dagobert's wife say to him: `My dear--you are weeping!'
"At these words, Agricola, Angela, and Magdalen gathered round the soldier.Anxiety was visible upon every face.Then, as he raised his head abruptly, one could see two large tears trickle down his cheek to his white moustache.`It is nothing, my children,' said he, in a voice of emotion `it is nothing.Only, to-day is the first of June--and this day four years--' He could not complete the sentence; and, as he raised his hands to his eyes, to brush away the tears, we saw that he held between his fingers a little bronze chain, with a medal suspended to it.
That is his dearest relic.Four years ago, almost dying with despair at the loss of the two angels, of whom I have so often spoken to you, my friend, he took from the neck of Marshal Simon, brought home dead from a fatal duel, this chain and medal which his children had so long worn.I went down instantly, as you may suppose, to endeavor to soothe the painful remembrances of this excellent man; gradually, he grew calmer, and the evening was passed in a pious and quiet sadness.
"You cannot imagine, my friend, when I returned to my chamber, what cruel thoughts came to my mind, as I recalled those past events, from which I generally turn away with fear and horror.Then I saw once more the victims of those terrible and mysterious plots, the awful depths of which have never been penetrated thanks to the death of Father d'A.and Father R., and the incurable madness of Madame de St.-D., the three authors or accomplices of the dreadful deeds.The calamities occasioned by them are irreparable; for those who were thus sacrificed to a criminal ambition, would have been the pride of humanity by the good they would have done.
Ah, my friend! if you had known those noble hearts; if you had known the projects of splendid charity, formed by that young lady, whose heart was so generous, whose mind so elevated, whose soul so great! On the eve of her death, as a kind of prelude to her magnificent designs, after a conversation, the subject of which I must keep secret, even from you, she put into my hands a considerable sum, saying, with her usual grace and goodness: "I have been threatened with ruin, and it might perhaps come.
What I now confide to you will at least be safe--safe--for those who suffer.Give much--give freely--make as many happy hearts as you can.
