As in some medieval scriptorium, Hervey sat in his cell making a fair copy of the draft petition which Barrow had given him. There was a knock at the door. ‘Come in, Johnson,’ he called absently. But Johnson never knocked, and Hervey looked up to find instead the same sister of the day before. Her habit was no longer bloodstained and her face not nearly so drawn. He might not have recognized her but for the ice-blue eyes which, now less sunken, were more piercing than before. She had cast her overmantle, and he was able to gain a more faithful impression of her figure, as pleasingly slender as any he had seen. Her bosom, too, suggested an aptness for fashion, unlike the Spanish nuns whose amplitude would have challenged the corsetier’s art. Having had the broken sutures replaced by the surgeon only the afternoon before, he was perplexed at her being there – though much charmed. ‘Yes, Sister, can I help?’ he asked in French.
And she replied, to his evident astonishment, in English. ‘Mr Hervey, I have heard that Lord Wellington has said that if King Louis were to be restored we would be treated as if liberated rather than conquered.’ Not only did she convey her sense perfectly, with an admirable mastery of the subjunctive, but her aspirates, as alien to a Frenchwoman as they seemed to be to Johnson, were breathed consummately. And there was scarce a trace of accent, though she did not Anglicize the king’s name as Cotton’s dispatch had done – or, at least, the way in which Edmonds had read it. ‘Mr Hervey, forgive me,’ she continued. ‘Yesterday you paid me the compliment of speaking in French, and I have not returned that compliment until now. Yesterday was … well, a most tiring day: I had not slept in—’
‘Sister, there is no need,’ he interrupted. ‘I believe you thought me … indulgent, in so far as I appeared to demand the surgeon in person. That was furthest from my intention.’
‘I do not doubt it for a moment, Mr Hervey. You are an honourable man, I think, one who might be trusted,’ she replied softly.
‘I hold myself to be so, Sister,’ said Hervey thankfully. It was curious how he felt the need of this nun’s approval.
‘Sir, I wish to explain something to you and then I have a kindness to ask.’
‘By all means, Sister,’ he replied, intrigued by both the warmth of her tone and the notion that he might be of assistance to her.
‘Mr Hervey, my name is Maria de Chantonnay. My people are from the Vendée. There was much suffering there after the rising for the king. You may know of General Turreau’s colonnes infernales?’
‘Yes, it was some time ago, but we all know of it.’
‘My father lost his estates there, after the fighting. We have been under suspicion ever since. My family will learn of the fighting here in Toulouse and they may fear the worst for me …’ Her voice trailed off.
Hervey nodded in sympathy but was at a loss to see where this might lead.
‘Sir, your army will, I think, have couriers whom it can trust. I wish to commit a letter to my people to you.’
He was not even sure where the Vendée was. He said that he supposed it must be possible, although he could not immediately think how. When she rectified his ignorance of the French seaboard he was even more sceptical. ‘I will, of course, do all I can, Sister. I cannot say whether your letter might be carried by courier, however. And I fear that it is quite impossible for me to carry it in person since I do not suppose the regiment will march further than Bordeaux for our passage to England. And the Vendee will scarcely be on the marching route to Paris for those regiments which are to furnish the garrison there. Why cannot you entrust it to French hands, Sister?’
‘Mr Hervey, there would be a price on any letter addressed to the comte de Chantonnay. Where may I find one of my own countrymen to trust at this time?’
The appeal was irresistible. ‘Sister Maria, I will do all I can,’ he said at length, ‘though what that is I am not in the least sure.’
Sister Maria de Chantonnay could now at last rest; for an Englishman, an English officer, had given his word, and she owned that there was no more she could ask for – nor, indeed, need ask for. ‘Mr Hervey,’ she resumed, her aspect and tone becoming once again solemn, ‘when I came here yesterday you had in your hands St Ignatius Loyola’s Spiritual Exercises— Oh, but please sit down and rest your leg.’ (She seemed suddenly to notice the slight awkwardness with which he stood.) ‘Did you read sufficient of it?’
What constituted sufficiency in her mind he was not sure, but he reckoned it would be a demanding measure. ‘In a cursory fashion,’ he replied truthfully but guardedly.
‘St Ignatius was a remarkable man, Mr Hervey. You will know of him, I feel sure?’
‘Nothing but that he was founder of the Jesuits,’ said Hervey flatly.
‘Yes, indeed, he was,’ she replied with the suggestion of a frown.
‘And the Jesuits were expelled from Spain and Portugal half a century ago for political intriguing, and from your own country, too, Sister, were they not?’ he added.
‘Yes,’ she sighed, ‘and His Holiness dissolved their order, it is true – though some there remained in Russia, I believe. But St Ignatius himself, Mr Hervey: do you know anything of the man and his faith?’
Hervey admitted that he did not and shifted uncomfortably in the sedile. His leg was beginning to ache and, with apologies, he began loosening the bindings of his overalls, grateful for the opportunity of distraction.
Sister Maria kneeled on the bare stone floor, sitting back on her heels, oblivious to any sign of his discomfort other than his leg. ‘Like you, St Ignatius of Loyola was a soldier,’ she pressed, ‘the younger son of a Spanish nobleman. I think you, too, perhaps are such a son, Mr Hervey – of a nobleman I mean.’
‘No,’ smiled Hervey, ‘not a nobleman. My father is a clergyman, a minister of the Church of England.’
‘Then a gentleman certainly,’ she replied, reflecting his smile. ‘St Ignatius was from the Basque country: you must have passed close to Loyola when you crossed the Pyrenees, Mr Hervey?’ (But the name meant nothing to him.) ‘He was wounded during the siege of Pamplona in the war with France – about 1520,1 think. He made a long convalescence and read much of the life of Christ and of the saints, and he determined to give his life wholly to God’s service. He gathered others about him, and they bound themselves by vow to become missionaries among the Mussulmen of the Holy Land. But when war barred their way to the east they offered their services instead to His Holiness.’
Hervey wondered where this could be leading, but thought better of trying to interrupt her homily.
‘It was then that they resolved upon founding a religious order, the Society of Jesus, with an additional vow of placing themselves entirely at His Holiness’s disposal. St Ignatius brought his soldier’s discipline to the order, you see, Mr Hervey.’
‘But I do not see, I am afraid, Sister. I do not understand your purpose. It is not unusual to find oneself, as a soldier, with wounds.’
She paused, and then startled him with her candour. ‘Do you pray, Mr Hervey?’
‘Yes, of course,’ he replied.
‘And do you meditate?’
He recoiled at the intrusion. But then, so disarming was her voice and manner, and so innocent her directness, that instead he found himself welcoming her solicitude. He knew full well that every officer maintained a pose – a mask – in which the worst effects of war were immured. But this pose, however habitual, was not maintained without effort, and with this nun he perceived the mask to be unnecessary: indeed, he felt in its slipping a glow, a warmth – a release even.
‘I think, Sister. About certain things I think much. But meditation would imply some system, would it not?’
‘Yes, and The Spiritual Exercises are just that.’
He could not but permit a smile at the adroitness with which she had brought the colloquy full circle. He was out-manoeuvred. It was now obvious to him how she had managed to survive both the reign of terror and the repression since! He freely confessed that the Exercises had engaged him, such as he had found the time t
o read – and, indeed, within the limits of his Latin, which was of late unpractised.
But she was no less ready for this self-deprecation. ‘St Ignatius, also, found he had insufficient Latin at first. He took to studying with the schoolboys of Barcelona, no less. If you wish, I will conduct you through the exercises.’
Hervey hesitated. ‘I am not sure … that is … I …’ And then, with a note of resolution: ‘Thank you, Sister; I accept, with gratitude.’
Sister Maria made a small bow and said she would return later to begin the catechism.
But now that the stiff formality between them had eased he felt it possible at last to ask of her certain matters. ‘Sister, a moment if you will. My regiment has so abruptly intruded on the peace of this place that … well, I think what I am trying to say is that we have not seen the like of your order hitherto. You seem more’ – he paused again, searching for a word that would convey his meaning without disparaging others he had seen – ‘more … austere.’
‘Mr Hervey, even the Benedictine orders have fallen on hard times in France since the Revolution. The Church is mistrusted, and much of its earthly wealth is gone. We have been left alone here, I believe, because Toulouse was not a place of importance in the wars, but also because we are Carmelites. We pose no threat.’
That answered in large part the second question he would have asked, but he was still unsure of the nature of her order. ‘I know of the name “Carmelite”, Sister,’ he continued, ‘but nothing of your origins or rule.’
‘Our roots are in Palestine, Mr Hervey, among the hermits of Mount Carmel. When the Holy Land was overrun by the Turks they moved west and began living in community, but always poor and solitary communities. Perhaps when you were in Spain you saw, or heard of, the city of Avila – near Madrid, I think?’
He knew where the city was but had not been there.
‘Well, if you had been there you would have seen the place where our greatest saint, Teresa, lived – a little time after St Ignatius. She wrote a new rule for our order, and it is that which we follow here in Toulouse. She lived by the simplest of precepts.’
He nodded and made as if to ask a further question, but she instead raised a hand. ‘Forgive me, Mr Hervey, but I must go now: there are duties for me as there are with you.’
He rose and made a bow after the fashion of the King’s Germans. She smiled, and there was warmth in her eyes.
* * *
‘Mr ’Ervey sir,’ – how Johnson’s attitude to aspirates stood in sharp contrast to Sister Maria’s – ‘adjutant wants to know straight away if tha wants t’ go t’Staff Corps.’
Hervey sat up and rubbed his eyes. ‘What time is it?’
‘About seven o’clock. Tha’s slept all night. Why didn’t tha tell me about America?’ he added in a distinctly resentful tone. ‘Last thing I want to do’s roust off there.’
‘Because I heard only yesterday,’ Hervey replied. ‘In any case, I am not going. And why must you be so damnably crabby?’
Johnson chose to ignore the question (it was not difficult to see, sometimes, why Rawlings and Boyse had dispensed with his services, thought Hervey). ‘Well, thank God for that, Mr ’Ervey, but wouldn’t it ’ave meant promotion?’
‘Private Johnson, may we revert to the usual practice of officer and groom in this regiment?’ he replied with a wearied sigh.
‘Suit thi’sen, Mr ’Ervey sir – I’ll wait till I’m spoken to!’
The adjutant seemed less surprised than Johnson on hearing Hervey’s decision. Edmonds would be disappointed, he said, but he really did not think the major had expected him to take the American option anyway. ‘We’ll just ’ave to sweat things out for a day or so until we hear about the petition,’ was his verdict.
Edmonds had calculated that it would be three days, perhaps four, before they would know if the ruse had worked. It would take Slade a day fully to comprehend the options; it would take him another to come to terms with the indignity of the compromise, and it would be the third day before his brigade major would press him for an answer (if they did not forward it within three days, they would be in default of Advocate-General Larpent’s standing orders for redresses, and to be in default of Larpent’s instructions was to invite the wrath of Wellington himself). Sure enough, just before evening stables three days later, Heroys, the brigade major, himself arrived at the convent to offer the reciprocal arrangement that Edmonds had predicted. And Heroys knew full well whose stratagem it was: ‘Oh, and by the by,’ he added casually, with a smile that might just have been described as conspiratorial, ‘I was surprised not to see young Hervey’s name put forward for the Corps. You have heard, incidentally, that General Slade is being recalled to England?’
No, he had not! The most capital news it was, too, and Edmonds had no qualms about saying so. But Heroys’s next news was not.
‘The brigade is to commence the march for embarkation in five days’ time,’ he began. That in itself was not bad news; but they were not, as everyone had expected, to sail from Bordeaux, where shallow-draught claret-boats, which made excellent horse-transports, would be able to get right up from the mouth of the Gironde.
‘Boulogne!’ exclaimed Edmonds when Heroys revealed the port at which they would embark. ‘For heaven’s sake, man: that must be all of eight hundred miles!’
‘Nearly nine,’ replied Heroys, matter-of-fact.
‘What in God’s name is Slade thinking of?’
‘Not his doing.’
‘Cotton?’
‘I should not think he was even asked.’
‘But has he protested? Damn it, I’ll go and see Wellington myself!’
‘I think that would be foolhardy even by your standards, Edmonds. You have not exactly endeared yourself to Slade. I know I said that he has been recalled, but stick your neck out any further and … well, let us just say that in the present scheme of things I counsel extreme caution. Even Sir Hussey Vivian is having a hard time of things with Wellington.’
Edmonds accepted Heroys’s advice with reluctance and had set about readying the Sixth for the long march north. Lankester forbade Hervey to take part in any active duty in the hope that his leg might thereby stand the journey. Instead he arranged for him to receive each morning a pile of French documents – of which there seemed no end in the préfecture – to scrutinize for anything of intelligence value. But they proved to be of a mundane nature, with nothing of military interest. His work was made less tedious, however, by the assistance of Sister Maria de Chantonnay whose Ignatian catechism had to be conducted in snatches while they sifted through endless titles and land deeds confiscated over the previous two decades. Come the third day she had, by degrees, revealed the circumstances of her life before entering the convent. Her fine English she had learned from her nurse, the daughter of Lancastrian recusants, who had lived with them in the Vendee. Hervey’s own French, he told her, had been acquired in the same fashion, for his governess had been of an old Jansenist family from Alsace, and she had taught him German, too, although it was not quite so fluent perhaps as his French. At this Sister Maria laughed, and mocked his Alsatian accent: ‘But you would almost certainly pass for a Frenchman if ever it suited you, Mr Hervey.’
‘An unlikely requirement now, I think, Sister.’
And she agreed. ‘I think so. I surely pray that there will be no more fighting between our countries. And what of you, then, Mr Hervey – what are your intentions?’
Only three days before, he had rounded on Johnson for wanting to know his business, yet now he was content to tell all to this nun – about his family, about his joining the Sixth and his hopes for promotion, and how these were suddenly in doubt with the news of his brother’s death.
‘It seems very strange to me, Mr Hervey, that a man must pay for his position in the Army. Any man with aptitude in France may become an officer: it does not turn on a question of money.’
‘No, sister, it is strange, and I for one would not long defend it, but it is
supposed that it has its merits – besides, that is, making the Army a good deal cheaper for Parliament.’
‘What might be these merits, Mr Hervey?’ she asked sceptically.
‘Well, I think if you knew of the dread in which any return to the late Commonwealth is still held in our country you would own that by having officers with so tangible a stake in the system there was less chance of their throwing in with some dictator.’
‘You are suggesting that such a system in France might have stayed a republic?’
‘France is not England, Sister, but such a notion is not infeasible.’
‘Is this notion not at heart dishonourable, though? Is it money only which commands loyalty in England? Would not an oath suffice?’
‘Sometimes the best of men are subverted by evil ones who are able to confuse them as to where their duty lies.’
‘That is well said, Mr Hervey,’ and she laughed.
He liked her laugh. He admired her mind and her soul, but her laugh made both accessible. ‘Sister, do you suppose there might be anything in these documents of the slightest import to matters of state?’ he asked, reflecting the smile.
‘Not especially,’ she replied. ‘In fact, not at all, I should say.’ Her look turning to one of conspiracy.
‘Then I believe we might permit ourselves some respite. Would you like to take a turn about the horse lines?’
‘Indeed, I should,’ she replied, still smiling.
Never, perhaps, had Sister Maria de Chantonnay expected the cloisters of the Convent of St Mary of Magdala to throng with so great a number of men, let alone horses. As she and Hervey made their way through the lines they had to step this way and that around piles of hay and soiled straw, and buckets of water (for the watering call had sounded ten minutes before, and the troopers were working in relays from the well in the courtyard). Stopping here and there when Hervey thought there was some point of interest with a particular animal, they were paid no more attention than if they had been at a fair. C Troop were evidently to furnish some escort, for a dozen troopers were in the throes of saddling up under the supervision of the troop corporal.
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