Michel and Angele [A Ladder of Swords], Complete - Gilbert Parker
MICHEL AND ANGELE, Complete
[A Ladder of Swords]
By Gilbert Parker
INTRODUCTION
If it does not seem too childish a candour to say so, 'Michel and Angele'
always seems to me like some old letter lifted out of an ancient cabinet
with the faint perfume of bygone days upon it. Perhaps that is because
the story itself had its origin in a true but brief record of some good
Huguenots who fled from France and took refuge in England, to be found,
as the book declares, at the Walloon Church, in Southampton.
The record in the first paragraphs of the first chapter of the book
fascinated my imagination, and I wove round Michel de la Foret and Angele
Aubert a soft, bright cloud of romance which would not leave my vision
until I sat down and wrote out what, in the writing, seemed to me a true
history. It was as though some telepathy between the days of Elizabeth
and our own controlled me--self-hypnotism, I suppose; but still, there it
was. The story, in its original form, was first published in 'Harper's
Weekly' under the name of Michel and Angele, but the fear, I think, that
many people would mispronounce the first word of the title, induced me to
change it when, double in length, it became a volume called 'A Ladder of
Swords'.
As it originally appeared, I wrote it in the Island of Jersey, out at the
little Bay of Rozel in a house called La Chaire, a few yards away from
the bay itself, and having a pretty garden with a seat at its highest
point, from which, beyond the little bay, the English Channel ran away to
the Atlantic. It was written in complete seclusion. I had no visitors;
there was no one near, indeed, except the landlord of the little hotel in
the bay, and his wife. All through the Island, however, were people whom
I knew, like the Malet de Carterets, the Lemprieres, and old General
Pipon, for whom the Jersey of three hundred years ago was as near as the
Jersey of to-day, so do the Jersiais prize, cultivate, and conserve every
hour of its recorded history.
As the sea opens out to a vessel making between the promontories to the
main, so, while writing this tale which originally was short, the larger
scheme of 'The Battle of the Strong' spread out before me, luring me, as
though in the distance were the Fortunate Isles. Eight years after
'Michel and Angele' was written and first published in 'Harper's Weekly',
I decided to give it the dignity of a full-grown romance. For years I had
felt that it had the essentials for a larger canvas, and at the earnest
solicitation of Messrs. Harper & Brothers I settled to do what had long
been in my mind. The narrative grew as naturally from what it was to
larger stature as anything that had been devised upon a greater scale at
the beginning; and in London town I had the same joy in the company of
Michel and Angele--and a vastly increased joy in the company of
Lempriere, the hulking, joyous giant--as I had years before in Jersey
itself when the story first stirred in my mind and reached my pen.
While adverse reviews of the book were few if any, it cannot be said that
this romance is a companion in popularity with, for instance, 'The Right
of Way'. It had its friends, but it has apparently appealed to smaller
audiences--to those who watch the world go by; who are not searching for
the exposure of life's grim realities; who do not seek the clinic of the
soul's tragedies. There was tragedy here, but there was comedy too; there
was also joy and faith, patience and courage. The book, taken by itself,
could not make a permanent reputation for any man, but it has its place
in the scheme of my work, and I would not have it otherwise than it is.
A NOTE
There will be found a few anachronisms in this tale, but none so
important as to give a wrong impression of the events of Queen
Elizabeth's reign.
MICHEL AND ANGELE
CHAPTER I
If you go to Southampton and search the register of the Walloon Church
there, you will find that in the summer of 157,
"Madame Vefue de Montgomery with all her family and servants were
admitted to the Communion"--"Tous ceux cj furent Recus la a Cene du
157, comme passans, sans avoir Rendu Raison de la foj, mes sur la
tesmognage de Mons. Forest, Ministre de Madame, quj certifia quj ne
cognoisoit Rien en tout ceux la po' quoy Il ne leur deust administre
la Cene s'il estoit en lieu po' a ferre."
There is another striking record, which says that in August of the same
year Demoiselle Angele Claude Aubert, daughter of Monsieur de la Haie
Aubert, Councillor of the Parliament of Rouen, was married to Michel de
la Foret, of the most noble Flemish family of that name.
When I first saw these records, now grown dim with time, I fell to
wondering what was the real life-history of these two people. Forthwith,
in imagination, I began to make their story piece by piece; and I had
reached a romantic 'denoument' satisfactory to myself and in sympathy
with fact, when the Angel of Accident stepped forward with some "human
documents." Then I found that my tale, woven back from the two obscure
records I have given, was the true story of two most unhappy yet most
happy people. From the note struck in my mind, when my finger touched
that sorrowful page in the register of the Church of the Refugees at
Southampton, had spread out the whole melody and the very book of the
song.
One of the later-discovered records was a letter, tear-stained, faded,
beautifully written in old French, from Demoiselle Angele Claude Aubert
to Michel de la Foret at Anvers in March of the year 157. The letter lies
beside me as I write, and I can scarcely believe that three and a quarter
centuries have passed since it was written, and that she who wrote it was
but eighteen years old at the time. I translate it into English, though
it is impossible adequately to carry over either the flavour or the idiom
of the language:
Written on this May Day of the year 157, at the place hight Rozel
in the Manor called of the same of Jersey Isle, to Michel de la
Foret, at Anvers in Flanders.
MICHEL, Thy good letter by safe carriage cometh to my hand, bringing
to my heart a lightness it hath not known since that day when I was
hastily carried to the port of St. Malo, and thou towards the King
his prison. In what great fear have I lived, having no news of thee
and fearing all manner of mischance! But our God hath benignly
saved thee from death, and me He hath set safely here in this isle
of the sea.
Thou hast ever been a brave soldier, enduring and not fearing; thou
shalt find enow to keep thy blood stirring in these days of trial
and peril to us who are so opprobriously called Les Huguenots. If
thou wouldst know more of my mind thereupon, come hither. Safety is
here, and work for thee--smugglers and pirates do abound on these
coasts, and Popish wolves do harry the flock even in this island
province of England. Michel, I plead for the cause which thou hast
nobly espoused, but--alas! my selfish heart, where thou art lie work
and fighting, and the same high cause, and sadly, I confess, it is
for mine own happiness that I ask thee to come. I wot well that
escape from France hath peril, that the way hither from that point
upon yonder coast called Carteret is hazardous, but yet-but yet all
ways to happiness are set with hazard.
If thou dost come to Carteret thou wilt see two lights turning this-
wards: one upon a headland called Tour de Rozel, and one upon the
great rock called of the Ecrehos. These will be in line with thy
sight by the sands of Hatainville. Near by the Tour de Rozel shall
I be watching and awaiting thee. By day and night doth my prayer
ascend for thee.
The messenger who bears this to thee (a piratical knave with a most
kind heart, having, I am told, a wife in every port of France and of
England the south, a most heinous sin!) will wait for thy answer, or
will bring thee hither, which is still better. He is worthy of
trust if thou makest him swear by the little finger of St. Peter.
By all other swearings he doth deceive freely.
The Lord make thee true, Michel. If thou art faithful to me, I
shall know how faithful thou art in all; for thy vows to me were
most frequent and pronounced, with a full savour that might warrant
short seasoning. Yet, because thou mayst still be given to such
dear fantasies of truth as were on thy lips in those dark days
wherein thy sword saved my life 'twixt Paris and Rouen, I tell thee
now that I do love thee, and shall so love when, as my heart
inspires me, the cloud shall fall that will hide us from each other
forever.
ANGELE.
An Afterword:
I doubt not we shall come to the heights where there is peace,
though we climb thereto by a ladder of swords. A.
Some years before Angele's letter was written, Michel de la Foret had
become an officer in the army of Comte Gabriel de Montgomery, and fought
with him until what time the great chief was besieged in the Castle of
Domfront in Normandy. When the siege grew desperate, Montgomery besought
the intrepid young Huguenot soldier to escort Madame de Montgomery to
England, to be safe from the oppression and misery sure to follow any
mishap to this noble leader of the Camisards.
At the very moment of departure of the refugees from Domfront with the
Comtesse, Angele's messenger--the "piratical knave with the most kind
heart" presented himself, delivered her letter to De la Foret, and
proceeded with the party to the coast of Normandy by St. Brieuc.
Embarking there in a lugger which Buonespoir the pirate secured for them,
they made for England.
Having come but half-way of the Channel, the lugger was stopped by an
English frigate. After much persuasion the captain of the frigate agreed
to land Madame de Montgomery upon the island of Jersey, but forced De la
Foret to return to the coast of France; and Buonespoir elected to return
with him.
CHAPTER II
Meanwhile Angele had gone through many phases of alternate hope and
despair. She knew that Montgomery the Camisard was dead, and a rumour,
carried by refugees, reached her that De la Foret had been with him to
the end. To this was presently added the word that De la Foret had been
beheaded. But one day she learned that the Comtesse de Montgomery was
sheltered by the Governor, Sir Hugh Pawlett, her kinsman, at Mont Orgueil
Castle. Thither she went in fear from her refuge at Rozel, and was
admitted to the Comtesse. There she learned the joyful truth that De la
Foret had not been slain, and was in hiding on the coast of Normandy.
The long waiting was a sore trial, yet laughter was often upon her lips
henceforth. The peasants, the farmers and fishermen of Jersey, at
first--as they have ever been--little inclined towards strangers, learned
at last to look for her in the fields and upon the shore, and laughed in
response, they knew not why, to the quick smiling of her eyes. She even
learned to speak their unmusical but friendly Norman-Jersey French. There
were at least a half-dozen fishermen who, for her, would have gone at
night straight to the Witches' Rock in St. Clement's Bay--and this was
bravery unmatched.
It came to be known along the coast that "Ma'm'selle" was waiting for a
lover fleeing from the French coast. This gave her fresh interest in the
eyes of the serfs and sailors and their women folk, who at first were not
inclined towards the Huguenot maiden, partly because she was French, and
partly because she was not a Catholic. But even these, when they saw that
she never talked religiously, that she was fast learning to speak their
own homely patois, and that in the sickness of their children she was
untiring in her kindness, forgave the austerity of the gloomy-browed old
man her father, who spoke to them distantly, or never spoke at all; and
her position was secure. Then, upon the other hand, the gentry of the
manors, seeing the friendship grow between her and the Comtesse de
Montgomery at Mont Orgueil Castle, made courteous advances towards her
father, and towards herself through him.
She could scarce have counted the number of times she climbed the great
hill like a fortress at the lift of the little bay of Rozel, and from the
Nez du Guet scanned the sea for a sail and the sky for fair weather. When
her eyes were not thus busy, they were searching the lee of the hillside
round for yellow lilies, and the valley below for the campion, the
daffodil, and the thousand pretty ferns growing in profusion there. Every
night she looked out to see that her signal fire was lit upon the Nez du
Guet, and she never went to bed without taking one last look over the
sea, in the restless inveterate hope which at once sustained her and
devoured her.
But the longest waiting must end. It came on the evening of the very day
that the Seigneur of Rozel went to Angele's father and bluntly told him
he was ready to forego all Norman-Jersey prejudice against the French and
the Huguenot religion, and take Angele to wife without penny or estate.
In reply to the Seigneur, Monsieur Aubert said that he was conscious of
an honour, and referred Monsieur to his daughter, who must answer for
herself; but he must tell Monsieur of Rozel that Monsieur's religion
would, in his own sight, be a high bar to the union. To that the Seigneur
said that no religion that he had could be a bar to anything at all; and
so long as the young lady could manage her household, drive a good
bargain with the craftsmen and hucksters, and have the handsomest face
and manners in the Channel Islands, he'd ask no more; and she might pray
for him and his salvation without let or hindrance.
The Seigneur found the young lady in a little retreat among the rocks,
called by the natives La Chaire. Here she sat sewing upon some coarse
linen for a poor fisherwoman's babe when the Seigneur came near. She
heard the scrunch of his heels upon the gravel, the clank of his sword
upon the rocks, and looked up with a flush, her needle poised; for none
should know of her presence in this place save her father. When she saw
who was her visitor, she rose. After greeting and compliment, none too
finely put, but more generous than fitted with Jersey parsimony, the
gentleman of Rozel came at once to the point.
"My name is none too bad," said he--"Raoul Lempriere, of the Lemprieres
that have been here since Rollo ruled in Normandy. My estate is none
worse than any in the whole islands; I have more horses and dogs than any
gentleman of my acres; and I am more in favour at court than De Carteret
of St. Ouen's. I am the Queen's butler, and I am the first that royal
favour granted to set up three dove-cotes, one by St. Aubin's, one by St.
Helier's, and one at Rozel: and--and," he added, with a lumbering attempt
at humour--"and, on my oath, I'll set up another dove-cote with out my
sovereign's favour, with your leave alone. By our Lady, I do love that
colour in yon cheek! Just such a colour had my mother when she snatched
from the head of my cousin of Carteret's milk-maid wife the bonnet of a
lady of quality and bade her get to her heifers. God's beauty! but 'tis a
colour of red primroses in thy cheeks and blue campions in thine eyes.
Come, I warrant I can deepen that colour"--he bowed low--"Madame of
Rozel, if it be not too soon!"
The girl listened to this cheerful and loquacious proposal and courtship
all in one, ending with the premature bestowal of a title, in mingled
anger, amusement, disdain, and apprehension. Her heart fluttered, then
stood still, then flew up in her throat, then grew terribly hot and hurt
her, so that she pressed her hand to her bosom as though that might ease
it. By the time he had finished, drawn himself up, and struck his foot
upon the ground in burly emphasis of his devoted statements, the girl had
sufficiently recovered to answer him composedly, and with a little glint
of demure humour in her eyes. She loved another man; she did not care so
much as a spark for this happy, swearing, swashbuckling gentleman; yet
she saw he had meant to do her honour. He had treated her as courteously
as was in him to do; he chose her out from all the ladies of his
acquaintance to make her an honest offer of his hand--he had said nothing
about his heart; he would, should she marry him, throw her scraps of
good-humour, bearish tenderness, drink to her health among his fellows,
and respect and admire her--even exalt her almost to the rank of a man in
his own eyes; and he had the tolerance of the open-hearted and
open-handed man. All these things were as much a compliment to her as
though she were not a despised Huguenot, an exiled lady of no fortune.
She looked at him a moment with an almost solemn intensity, so that he
shifted his ground uneasily, but at once smiled encouragingly, to relieve
her embarrassment at the unexpected honour done her. She had remained
standing; now, as he made a step towards her, she sank down upon the
seat, and waved him back courteously.
"A moment, Monsieur of Rozel," she ventured. "Did my father send you to
me?"
He inclined his head and smiled again.
"Did you say to him what you have said to me?" she asked, not quite
without a touch of malice.
"I left out about the colour in the cheek," he answered, with a smirk at
what he took to be the quickness of his wit.
"You kept your paint-pot for me," she replied softly.
"And the dove-cote, too," he rejoined, bowing finely, and almost carried
off his feet by his own brilliance. She became serious at once--so
quickly that he was ill prepared for it, and could do little but stare
and pluck at the tassel of his sword; for he was embarrassed before this
maiden, who changed as quickly as the currents change under the brow of
the Couperon Cliff, behind which lay his manor-house of Rozel.
"I have visited at your manor, Monsieur of Rozel. I have seen the state
in which you live, your retainers, your men-at-arms, your farming-folk,
and your sailormen. I know how your Queen receives you; how your honour
is as stable as your fief."
He drew himself up again proudly. He could understand this speech.
"Your horses and your hounds I have seen," she added, "your men-servants
and your maid-servants, your fields of corn, your orchards, and your
larder. I have sometimes broken the Commandment and coveted them and
envied you."
"Break the Commandment again, for the last time," he cried, delighted and
boisterous. "Let us not waste words, lady. Let's kiss and have it over."
Her eyes flashed. "I coveted them and envied you; but then, I am but a
vain girl at times, and vanity is easier to me than humbleness."
"Blood of man, but I cannot understand so various a creature!" he broke
in, again puzzled.
"There is a little chapel in the dell beside your manor, Monsieur. If you
will go there, and get upon your knees, and pray till the candles no more
burn, and the Popish images crumble in their places, you will yet never
understand myself or any woman."
"There's no question of Popish images between us," he answered, vainly
trying for foothold. "Pray as you please, and I'll see no harm comes to
the Mistress of Rozel."
He was out of his bearings and impatient. Religion to him was a dull
recreation invented chiefly for women. She became plain enough now. "'Tis
no images nor religion that stands between us," she answered, "though
they might well do so. It is that I do not love you, Monsieur of Rozel."
His face, which had slowly clouded, suddenly cleared. "Love! Love!" He
laughed good-humouredly. "Love comes, I'm told, with marriage. But we can
do well enough without fugling on that pipe. Come, come, dost think I'm
not a proper man and a gentleman? Dost think I'll not use thee well and
'fend thee, Huguenot though thou art, 'gainst trouble or fret or any
man's persecutions--be he my Lord Bishop, my Lord Chancellor, or King of
France, or any other?"
She came a step closer to him, even as though she would lay a hand upon
his arm. "I believe that you would do all that in you lay," she answered
steadily. "Yours is a rough wooing, but it is honest--"
"Rough! Rough!" he protested, for he thought he had behaved like some
Adonis. Was it not ten years only since he had been at Court!
"Be assured, Monsieur, that I know how to prize the man who speaks after
the light given him. I know that you are a brave and valorous gentleman.
I must thank you most truly and heartily, but, Monsieur, you and yours
are not for me. Seek elsewhere, among your own people, in your own
religion and language and position, the Mistress of Rozel."
He was dumfounded. Now he comprehended the plain fact that he had been
declined.
"You send me packing!" he blurted out, getting red in the face.
"Ah, no! Say it is my misfortune that I cannot give myself the great
honour," she said; in her tone a little disdainful dryness, a little
pity, a little feeling that here was a good friend lost.
"It's not because of the French soldier that was with Montgomery at
Domfront?--I've heard that story. But he's gone to heaven, and 'tis vain
crying for last year's breath," he added, with proud philosophy.
"He is not dead. And if he were," she added, "do you think, Monsieur,
that we should find it easier to cross the gulf between us?"
"Tut, tut, that bugbear Love!" he said shortly. "And so you'd lose a good
friend for a dead lover? I' faith, I'd befriend thee well if thou wert my
wife, Ma'm'selle."
"It is hard for those who need friends to lose them," she answered sadly.
The sorrow of her position crept in upon her and filled her eyes with
tears. She turned them to the sea-instinctively towards that point on the
shore where she thought it likely Michel might be; as though by looking
she might find comfort and support in this hard hour.
Even as she gazed into the soft afternoon light she could see, far over,
a little sail standing out towards the Ecrehos. Not once in six months
might the coast of France be seen so clearly. One might almost have noted
people walking on the beach. This was no good token, for when that coast
may be seen with great distinctness a storm follows hard after. The girl
knew this; and though she could not know that this was Michel de la
Foret's boat, the possibility fixed itself in her mind. She quickly
scanned the horizon. Yes, there in the north-west was gathering a
dark-blue haze, hanging like small filmy curtains in the sky.
The Seigneur of Rozel presently broke the silence so awkward for him. He
had seen the tears in her eyes, and though he could not guess the cause,
he vaguely thought it might be due to his announcement that she had lost
a friend. He was magnanimous at once, and he meant what he said and would
stand by it through thick and thin.
"Well, well, I'll be thy everlasting friend if not thy husband," he said
with ornate generosity. "Cheer thy heart, lady."
With a sudden impulse she seized his hand and kissed it, and, turning,
ran swiftly down the rocks towards her home.
He stood and looked after her, then, dumfounded, at the hand she had
kissed.
"Blood of my heart!" he said, and shook his head in utter amazement.
Then he turned and looked out upon the Channel. He saw the little boat
Angele had descried making from France. Glancing at the sky, "What fools
come there!" he said anxiously.
They were Michel de la Foret and Buonespoir the pirate, in a
black-bellied cutter with red sails.
CHAPTER III
For weeks De la Foret and Buonespoir had lain in hiding at St. Brieuc. At
last Buonespoir declared all was ready once again. He had secured for the
Camisard the passport and clothes of a priest who had but just died at
Granville. Once again they made the attempt to reach English soil.
Standing out from Carteret on the Belle Suzanne, they steered for the
light upon the Marmotier Rocks of the Ecrehos, which Angele had paid a
fisherman to keep going every night. This light had caused the French and
English frigates some uneasiness, and they had patrolled the Channel from
Cap de la Hague to the Bay of St. Brieuc with a vigilance worthy of a
larger cause. One fine day an English frigate anchored off the Ecrehos,
and the fisherman was seized. He, poor man, swore that he kept the light
burning to guide his brother fishermen to and fro between Boulay Bay and
the Ecrehos. The captain of the frigate tried severities; but the
fisherman stuck to his tale, and the light burned on as before--a lantern
stuck upon a pole. One day, with a telescope, Buonespoir had seen the
exact position of the staff supporting the light, and had mapped out his
course accordingly. He would head straight for the beacon and pass
between the Marmotier and the Maitre Ile, where is a narrow channel for a
boat drawing only a few feet of water. Unless he made this, he must run
south and skirt the Ecriviere Rock and bank, where the streams setting
over the sandy ridges make a confusing perilous sea to mariners in bad
weather. Else, he must sail north between the Ecrehos and the Dirouilles,
in the channel called Etoc, a tortuous and dangerous passage save in good
weather, and then safe only to the mariner who knows the floor of that
strait like his own hand. De la Foret was wholly in the hands of
Buonespoir, for he knew nothing of these waters and coasts; also he was a
soldier and no sailor.