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Another random document with
no related content on Scribd:
The Project Gutenberg eBook of The
Chevalier's daughter
This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States
and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no
restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it
under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this
ebook or online at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the
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you are located before using this eBook.

Title: The Chevalier's daughter

or, An exile for the truth

Author: Lucy Ellen Guernsey

Release date: April 9, 2024 [eBook #73365]

Language: English

Original publication: London: John F. Shaw and Co, 1880

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE

CHEVALIER'S DAUGHTER ***
 Transcriber's note: Unusual and inconsistent spelling is
as printed.

We were soon safely hidden among the tall bushes and

wild vines, which covered the top of the rock, but not too soon,
for
we were hardly settled before the head of the procession
appeared in sight.

[The Stanton-Corbet Chronicles.]

[Year 1660]

THE

CHEVALIER'S DAUGHTER;
OR,

An Exile for the Truth.

BY

LUCY ELLEN GUERNSEY

AUTHOR OF
 "LADY BETTY'S GOVERNESS," "WINIFRED,"
"LADY ROSAMOND'S BOOK."

New Edition.

LONDON:

JOHN F. SHAW AND CO.

48 PATERNOSTER ROW, E.C.

STORIES BY L. E. GUERNSEY.

Large Crown 8vo, cloth, 5s.

OLDHAM; OR, BESIDE ALL WATERS.
"The characters of the girls are capitally sketched"—The
Christian.

"The doctrinal teaching, warm, earnest, and devotional tone

of the story, are all we could desire."—Record.

Large Crown 8vo, cloth, 5s.

LOVEDAY'S HISTORY. A Story of Many Changes.
"One of the most fascinating stories we have read."—Daily
Review.

"A very interesting book, written in a very Christian and

charitable style."—Woman's Work.
 "This delightful book."—Record.

Crown 8vo, cloth, 5s.

THE FOSTER SISTERS. A Story of the Great Revival.
"A pretty story of the last century; the style is bright and
sparkling."—Athenæum.

"The story is charmingly told."—Guardian.

Crown 8vo, cloth, 5s.

THE CHEVALIER'S DAUGHTER; Or, An Exile for the Truth.
"One of those quaint old world stories which the author
knows so well how to write."—Leeds Mercury.

Crown 8vo, cloth, 5s.

LADY BETTY'S GOVERNESS; Or, The Corbet Chronicles.
"An unusually successful attempt to reproduce the manners of
the seventeenth century."—Saturday Review.

Crown 8vo, cloth, 5s.

LADY ROSAMOND'S BOOK; Or, Dawnings of Light.
"A well-told story, written in quaint old-time style, the
plot interesting and well sustained, and the tone good."—Leeds
Mercury.

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48, PATERNOSTER ROW, E.C.

 NOTE.

THESE memoirs were written by my

respected grandmother when she was quite an
old lady. I well remember as a child seeing her
writing upon them, my grandfather sitting near,
and she now and then suspending her pen to
talk over some incident with him. Matters have
not improved in France since her time, but 'tis
said that the young dauphin is quite a different
man from his father, and if he ever comes to
the throne, an effort will be made in behalf of
toleration for the persecuted Protestants. I hope
so, I am sure. But to return to the memoir.

After my grandparents' deaths, which took

place within a week of each other, the papers
were mislaid, and I only found them by accident
in an inner cupboard of a curious old carved
cabinet (I suspect the very one described in
these pages), which my younger brother took a
fancy to repair. I have amused the leisure
afforded me by a tedious sprained ankle in
arranging and transcribing these papers, which
seem to me both interesting and profitable.

ROSAMON
D GENEVIEVE CORBET.
 Tre Madoc Court, May 1st, 1740.

CONTENTS.

CHAPTER

I. Early Recollections

II. The Tour d'Antin

III. Youthful Days

IV. Trust and Distrust

V. Guests at the Tour

VI. The Lonely Grange

VII. A Sudden Summons

VIII. Flight
IX. In Jersey

X. To England

XI. Tre Madoc

XII. Mischief

XIII. The Book

XIV. A Wedding

XV. Stanton Court

XVI. London

XVII. My New Friends

XVIII. A Great Step

XIX. Another Change

XX. "You shall have no Choice"

XXI. The Convent

XXII. The Voyage

XXIII. Conclusion
 THE CHEVALIER'S DAUGHTER

CHAPTER I.
EARLY RECOLLECTIONS.

I WAS born in the year of grace 1660, at the Tour

d'Antin, a château not very far from the little village of
Sartilly in Normandy.

My father was the Chevalier d'Antin, a younger son of

the Provençal family of De Fayrolles.

My mother was an English lady, daughter of a very

ancient Devonshire family. Her name was Margaret Corbet,
and the branch of that tribe to which she belonged had
settled in Cornwall. I remember her as a very beautiful
woman, with crispy waved blonde hair and a clear white
skin more like alabaster than marble, and no tinge of color
in her cheeks. I never saw any other person so pale as she,
though her lips were always red. She had beautiful gray
eyes, with long black lashes, and clearly defined arched
eyebrows meeting above her nose, which gave a very
serious and even solemn expression to her face. This
expression accorded well with her character, which was
grave and thoughtful and very deeply religious. I never saw
any person whose faith was so much like sight as hers.
Nevertheless, she could smile very sweetly, and even laugh
merrily at times, but not very often. For a shadow hung
over our house from my earliest years—the same shadow
which darkened so many other French families at that time.

My father was a pleasant, lively, kindhearted

gentleman, who worshipped his beautiful wife, and treated
her as if she were indeed some fragile statue of alabaster
which might be broken by rough usage.

He was, as I have said, a younger son. His elder brother

lived far-away in Provence—at least his grand château was
there; but he and his wife spent most of their time at court,
where they both held offices about the king and queen. By
some family arrangement which I never understood, our
own Tour d'Antin came to my father, thus putting him in a
much more comfortable position than that of most younger
brothers, as there was a large and productive domain and
certain houses at Granville which brought good rents.
Besides, there were dues of fowls and so forth from the
tenants and small farmers. Indeed, my father, with his
simple country tastes, was far richer than his elder brother,
and that though my father's purse was always open to the
poor, especially those of our own household of faith.

The Tour d'Antin was a large building of reddish stone,

partly fortress, partly château. I suspect it had some time
been a convent also, for there was a paved court
surrounded by a cloister, and a small Gothic chapel which
was a good deal dilapidated, and never used in my time.
The fortress part of the house was very old. It consisted of
a square and a round tower, connected by a kind of gallery.
The walls were immensely thick, and so covered with
lichens and wall plants that one could hardly tell what they
were made of.

In the square tower my mother had her own private

apartment, consisting of a parlor and an anteroom, and an
oratory, or closet, as we should call it in England, the last
being formed partly in the thickness of the wall, partly by a
projecting turret. It seemed an odd choice, as the new part
of the house was so light and cheerful, but there was a
reason for this choice which I came to understand
afterward.

The rooms communicated by a gallery with the newer

part of the house, where was a saloon, my father's special
study and business room, and various lodging rooms. This
same gallery, as I have said, led to the oldest part of the
château—the round tower, which was somewhat ruinous,
and where nobody lived but the bats and owls, and, if the
servants were to be credited, the ghosts of a certain
chevalier and his unhappy wife, about whom there was a
terribly tragical legend. There was a steep stone staircase
leading to the top of the round tower, from whence one
could see a very little bit of the sea and the great
monastery and fortress of St. Michael.

There was no view of the sea from any other part of the
house, which lay in a sort of dell or depression quite
sheltered from the winds, but from the hill behind us, one
could see the whole extent of the sands which lay between
Granville and the Mont St. Michel, and the mount itself, a
glorious vision in a clear bright day, and a gloomy sight
when it lowered huge and dark through the mists of
November.

We young ones used to look at it with sensations of

awe, for we knew that inside those high frowning walls,
shut deep from light and air, were horrible dungeons, in
which some of "the Religion" had perished in lingering
misery, and others might, for all we knew, be pining there
still. Formerly, we were told, the pinnacle of the fortress
was crowned by a mighty gilded angel, an image of the
patron saint of the place, but it did not exist in my day.

The wide expanse of sand of which I have spoken was

and is called the Grève, and was no less an object of terror
to us than the fortress itself. It is a dreary and desolate
plain, abounding in shifting and fathomless quicksands,
which stretch on every hand and often change their places,
so that the most experienced guide cannot be sure of
safety. Not a year passes without many victims being
swallowed up by the Grève, and these accidents are
especially frequent about the time of the feast of St.
Michael, on the 29th of September, when crowds of pilgrims
flock to the mount from all over France. On the eve of All
Souls' Day—that is, on the 2d of November—as all good
Catholics in La Manche believe, there rises from the sands a
thick mist, and this mist is made up of the souls of those
unfortunates—pilgrims, fishermen, and smugglers—who
have from time to time found a horrible and living grave in
its treacherous depths, and who, having died without the
sacraments, are in at least a questionable position.

To the south and south-east of the Tour d'Antin lay wide

apple orchards, laden with fruit in good years, and seldom
failing altogether in bad ones. There was also a small
vineyard, but we made no wine, for Normandy is not a wine
country. The very children in arms drink cider as English
children drink milk, and it does not seem to hurt them. We
had a garden for herbs and vegetables—mostly salads,
carrots, and various kinds of pulse. Potatoes, which are
growing very common in England now, and were cultivated
to some extent even then, were unknown in France till long
afterward, and are not in use at present except as a rare
luxury.
 My mother had a flower-garden—very small, and
carefully tended by her own hands. At the end of our
garden stood a small unpretending stone building, not the
least like a church, which was nevertheless the only place of
worship of the Protestants for some miles around. For the
domain d'Antin was a kind of Protestant colony in the midst
of Catholics. All our own tenants were of "the Religion," and
there were a few of the same way of thinking, both in
Granville and Sartilly, who came to the "Temple," as it was
called, on the rare occasions when we had a visit from a
pastor.

On such occasions, we had sometimes as many as fifty

worshippers. When I recall the aspect of that little
congregation, with their solemn earnest faces, their blue
eyes fixed on the preacher, the old men and women with
their heads bent forward not to lose a word, the very
children in arms hushed and silent, and then look round on
our English congregation, with half the men asleep, the old
clerk nodding in his desk, or droning out the Amens, as my
naughty Walter says, like a dumbledore under a hat—when
I contrast the two, I sometimes wonder whether a little
persecution would not be good for the church on this side of
the water. It seems a poor way of praising the Lord for all
his benefits to go to sleep over them.

As I have said, the domain d'Antin was a kind of

Protestant colony in the midst of Roman Catholics—only we
did not use the word Protestant at that time. We were
among ourselves "the Reformed," or "the Religion;" among
our enemies the "Heretics," "the religion pretended to be
reformed," and so forth. Our family had belonged to this
party ever since there had been any "Reformed" in France,
and even before.
 For our ancestors had come into Provence from among
the Vaudois, of whom it was and is the boast that they had
never accepted the Romish corruptions of the true Gospel,
and therefore needed no reformation. For some hundreds of
years after their emigration, these people had lived in peace
with their neighbors. They had found Provence a wilderness,
all but abandoned to the wolves. They made it a smiling
garden. Vineyards and olive orchards, fruit and grain sprung
up where they trod. They were considered as odd people,
eccentric, perhaps a little mad, who would not swear nor
drink to excess, nor sing indecent songs, nor frequent
companies where such things were done; but then they
were quiet and peaceable, full of compassion for those who
needed help, paying dues to State and Church without a
murmur, and if they did not attend mass or confession, the
quiet old parish curés winked with both eyes, for the most
part, or contented themselves with mild admonitions to
such as came in their way.

But in the year 1540 all this was changed, and a

tempest fell on the peaceable inhabitants of Provence—a
tempest as unexpected by most of them as a thunderbolt
out of a clear sky. The preaching of the true Gospel, which
was begun about the year 1521 by Farel and Le Fevre,
spread like wildfire all over the kingdom. Crowds attended
everywhere on the ministrations of the reformed preachers,
and in many places, the parish priests were left to say mass
to the bare walls.

It seemed at first as if France would soon break away

from Rome, as Germany had done. But the fair dawn was
soon overclouded. Persecution arose because of the word,
and many were offended and returned to their former
observances.
 The Vaudois settlers in Provence were the greatest
sufferers. They were true to the faith of their forefathers,
and no menaces could shake them. Two of their villages—
Merindol and Cabrières—were burned to the ground. In the
former only one person was left alive—a poor idiot who had
given to a soldier two crowns for a ransom. The commander
of the expedition, d'Oppide, gave the soldier two crowns
from his own purse, and then caused the poor idiot to be
bound to a tree and shot. The men of Cabrières being
promised their lives and the lives of their families, laid down
their arms, and were cut in pieces on the spot. Women and
children were burned in their houses, others fled to the
mountains and woods to perish of want and cold, and the
name of Vaudois was almost extinguished in Provence. *
Almost, but not altogether.

* All these details and many more may be found in de

Félice's "Histoire des Protestants de France," and in many
Catholic writers as well.

A hidden seed still remained among the poor and lowly,

and some great houses still openly professed their faith and
protected their immediate dependents. Among these was
the family to which my grandfather belonged. Through all
the troubles and wars of the League—through the fearful
days of St. Bartholomew, when France ran blood from one
end to the other—the family of my ancestors kept their
heads above the flood without ever denying their faith. It
remained for my uncle, the head of our family, to sully our
noble name by real or pretended conversion, in order to
curry court favor from Louis XIV. He has left no descendant
to perpetuate his shame. That branch of the family is
extinct, the last son being killed in a disgraceful duel.
 It was before this disgrace fell upon us that my father,
in consequence of the family arrangement I have spoken of,
took possession of the domain in Normandy. He was not a
very young man when, in a visit he made to Jersey, he met
and married my mother, who had also gone thither on a
visit.

We could see the island of Jersey on a clear day, like a

blue cloud on the horizon, and used to look at it with great
interest as a part of England, which we pictured to
ourselves as a land of all sorts of marvels.

From the time of the execution of the Edict of Nantes in

1598 to the death of Henry IV., those of the Religion in
France enjoyed a good degree of peace, and their temples
(which they were not allowed even then to call churches)
multiplied all over the land. But the Bearnois, as the people
loved to call him, was hardly cold in his grave before his
successor began his attempts to undo what his great
progenitor had done, and from that time to the final
revocation of our great charter in 1685, every year—nay,
almost every month—brought down new persecutions, new
edicts on the heads of the "so-called Reformed." These
edicts were such as touched the honor, the safety, the very
life of every Protestant. I shall have to speak very largely of
these edicts as I proceed, for some of them had a direct
effect on my own destiny.

I have given a description of the Tour d'Antin as my

birthplace, but in truth my earliest recollections are of a
very different dwelling. For a long time after my birth, my
mother was in very delicate health and quite unable to
nurse me herself, so I was given over to the care of a
former servant of our family named Jeanne Sablot, who had
lately lost a young infant. Jeanne took me home to her own
house, and I only saw my dear mother at intervals of a
month or two till I was ten years old. Jeanne had two
children of her own, David and Lucille, both older than I,
and my sworn friends and protectors on all occasions.
Jeanne's parents had come from Provence, and she was like
an Italian, both in looks and ways. Her husband, Simon
Sablot, was a tall, blue-eyed, fair-haired Norman, somewhat
heavy and slow both in mind and ways, a devout Christian
man, respected even by his Roman Catholic neighbors for
his just dealings and generous hand.

But indeed we all lived in peace in those days. Catholics

and Protestants were neighborly together in the exchange
of good offices. Even the old curé did not hesitate to
exchange a kindly greeting with one of his heretical
parishioners, or to accept a seat and a drink of sparkling
cider in his dwelling. The great wave of persecution which
was sweeping over France had hardly reached our obscure
harbor, though we began to hear its roar at a distance.

The old farm-house in which my foster-parents lived

was roomy enough and very fairly neat, though the walls
and beams were black as ebony, and varnished with the
smoke of wood fires. I can see at this moment the row of
polished brass pans shining like gold in the firelight, the tall
drinking-glasses on the shelf, the oddly carved cabinet with
bright steel hinges, which Jeanne called a "bahut," and
cherished with pride because it had come down from her
Vaudois ancestors, and the round brass jar used for milking,
and into whose narrow neck it required some skill to direct
the stream from the udder aright.

I can see my foster-father seated in his great chair in

the chimney corner, and my good nurse baking on the
griddle cakes of sarrasin, which the English call buckwheat.
These cakes were very good when they came hot and crisp
from the griddle; but it was and is the custom to bake up a