The Scourge of God

CHAPTER XVI
SUCCOUR

Once more the day was drawing to a close. Already across the plain the sun's rays were slanting horizontally. Soon the sun itself would have dipped behind the mountains and be gone. Another night was at hand, and Martin, gazing on the country around from the castle walls on which he stood, thanked God that it would bring no terrors to the girl whom he had saved, such as the past one had brought.

Since they had been received into the castle in the morning by the commandant, a man who had once fought in countless campaigns but who now passed his latter years as governor of this place, he had seen nothing of Urbaine. She had been escorted to a room in the west wing immediately on their admission, where, after having been given restoratives in the shape of wine and food, and after being attended to by two or three of the few women in the place-soldiers' wives-she had begged that she might be allowed to be alone and thus obtain some rest. In was sorely needed, Martin said, speaking to the old chatelaine, sorely needed.

"And can be procured," the other replied, twisting up his great moustachios. "Bon Dieu! we have a room here fit for the reception of a duchess. Madame de Servas-a pretty thing-une femme de la vieille souche also-loves a soft nest; yet not one perched in an eyrie around which such storms blow as those that are now devastating Languedoc, the pest seize them and those who brew them!"

"Is the lady here?" Martin asked, thinking that, if so, she would be a comfort to the girl until she could escape back to Montpellier under his care.

"Pouf! pouf! pouf!" the old soldier said, "not she indeed. I tell you the tempest is too rough for her; she fears too much the vagabonds up there," whereupon he nodded toward where by now all the mountain tops of the Cévennes were gleaming in the morning sun. "Thereupon she is fled to Paris, the paradise of women; to Versailles-Marly. Well, she is safe there from these men," and again he nodded toward the mountains. "From other men, ho! ho! – of the court, figurez vous-danger may come, drawn by her bright eyes. However, there is the nest for mademoiselle. Tant mieux!"

But by now, as the evening drew on, those mountains were suffused by the soft couleur de rose that, in a near and less troubled land, was known as the Alpine glow. And Martin, himself refreshed after some hours' sleep during the day, was leaning over the castle wall looking down into the valley and the plain all flushed with the burning sunset of the golden autumn, with, far off and running through the latter, the silver thread that was the river Gardon hurrying on to join the Rhône. He was thinking now of many things, even as his eyes took in the beauties of all the fair department that lay around him-the distant woods whose leaves were scarce yet browned by the touch of autumn's fingers; the mill house on the Gardon's bank whose wheel was now still, since its owner had fled, perhaps forever; the gray convent that lay farther off and had been half destroyed by fire two nights ago; the crumbled ivy-clad tower a mile away, in which the king's father, Louis "The Just," had caused a score of Protestants to be burned alive-was thinking of many things as he regarded the fair scene. Whether he would ever see his own land once more, ever escape out of France, ever meet again in future years the pure fair girl whose life he had saved but a few hours ago-the girl whose faith and convictions were so bitterly hostile to his own, as every word she spoke, every thought she allowed utterance to, testified. Also he was wondering if the search he had undertaken for the lost de Rochebazon-the search he now deemed a foolish, Quixotic one-could result in aught but failure here in such a tempest-tossed spot as this.

"Never," he muttered to himself, "never shall I find him. France's empty coffers must swallow up all the wealth that is his, the Church he renounced must profit by my own renunciation. Find him! How? Where? Hanging to some gibbet if he has lived till these days, or learn that years ago he perished on the wheel or at the stake; that his ashes were cast to the winds. I shall never find him." Then he turned, hearing a step upon the leads behind him, and observed the commandant approaching the spot where he stood.

Already, when the old soldier had been by his side a few moments before, he had been made acquainted with all that had happened on the previous day, and of how it was only by God's mercy that Martin had arrived at the fortunate moment he did.

"I was," he said, "on my way to Valence, to which some affairs led me, where I heard the sound of firing and the shouts of men engaged in fierce conflict. And I should have stood outside the fray, have taken no part in it, but that I saw the travelling coach and observed a serving woman screaming on the top of it; saw a face at the coach window-that of mademoiselle. I could not refrain from attempting her rescue. She was a helpless, defenceless girl. It was no place for her among those men fighting like tigers. Also we had met before at her father's residency."

"Ponz! ponz!" said the commandant, "you did well. Nonc d'un chien, you did well for yourself and her. Baville will not forget. She is the apple of his eye, although no blood relation, yet the child of a loved friend, confided to him in death. Also his own child is a trouble to him. The Intendant spends all his heart on this girl. They say he worships her tenderly, fondly, because of her father. Ask Baville for aught you desire when you return to Montpellier and you will get it. He will repay you as fully as if-well! – as if, had you injured her, he would have cut you into twenty thousand atoms."

"I shall ask him for nothing. One does not save a woman's life for a reward."

"That I know," the commandant replied, a little ruffled by the rebuke. "Yet, having saved her life, as well let Baville show his gratitude. He is all-powerful here in the province; his interest, too, is great at Versailles." Then, changing the subject, the old man said:

"If we had but enough men you and she should be sent to Montpellier to-morrow. Yet 'tis impossible. We have but sufficient here to garrison the place and to rush out and hurry any of those scélérats whom we can catch in small bodies. I can not spare any men to form a guard. Meanwhile the Intendant probably deems her dead by this time. God help all who fall into his hands after this!"

"How is it with her to-night?" Martin asked now, thinking that since the sun was set she must surely by this time have slept off much of her fatigue.

"She is refreshed and rested, the woman tells me who has been placed in attendance on her. Yet, too, she is very sad. She thinks much on her father's and mother's grief if they knew, as they must, what has befallen her, which they doubtless deem death. Oh, that I could communicate with Baville! Yet 'tis impossible. I can not spare a man."

"You can spare me," Martin answered gravely and with a seriousness that told he meant what he said. "Give me a horse better than the poor thing on which mademoiselle finished her journey here, and I will go; will undertake to reach Montpellier."

"You?" the commandant exclaimed, his eyes lighting up at the suggestion. "You? So! 'tis well. Who better than he who saved her to carry the good news to her father? Yet, yet," he said in his next breath, his face falling, "'tis impossible. You would never reach the city. They are everywhere, on dit two thousand strong already. And they spare none; above all, they will not spare the man who saved the Intendant's loved one."

"I may avoid them. Even if I do not there may still be a chance of my escape," Martin added, remembering that he was of the same faith as these rash unhappy rebels, although not in sympathy with them. Certainly not in sympathy with their cruelties.

"Escape? Yes, you may, even as by God's grace you escaped so far as to reach here. But such chances come not more than once together-who throws the ace twice! Moreover, if they know 'twas she who has slid out of their claws they will be over all the land, 'neath every bush, behind every stone, like painted snakes. There is no chance. You must remain here till some of Julien's or De Broglie's troops come to assist. Yet if you could have done it, have repeated your last night's valour, Baville would have worshipped you. Still, still you have done well. Bon Dieu!" – and the old man slapped the young one on the shoulder-"vous êtes un homme fort."

Looking away toward where now the purple shadows of the September evening were resting over all the plain, glancing over to where the white dusty road that followed the course of the Gardon stood out plain and distinct in the clear pure air, Martin saw that which told him that no further opportunity for a repetition of last night's valour, as the commandant had termed it, was like to come to him.

Already it seemed as if assistance was at hand.

"See," he said, "see! Even now the succour you pray for is near. Behold some of the troops of those whom you name-De Broglie's or Julien's! Look! the last rays sparkle on gorget and fusil-barrel. Thank God! She will be restored to her father. Perhaps to-night. To-morrow at latest."

It was as he said. Along that white dusty road which twined beside the river there came a body of cavalry, plain enough to be seen even by the age-worn eyes of the elder man. A troop numbering about thirty soldiers, on whose rich galloon, sword hilts, and bridle chains the last beams of the fast-sinking sun sparkled, it lighting up, too, the rich bleu du roi worn by some and the gallant scarlet of the others.

"Pardie!" exclaimed the commandant, "the slaughter could not have been as great as you imagined, my friend. Those men have at least escaped. Observe, the blue are the dragoons of De Broglie, the red are those of Hérault. Surely they were in the attack of yesterday," and he turned his eyes on Martin almost questioningly, as though wondering whether, for his own self-glorification, he had exaggerated his service to Urbaine.

"'Tis strange," the other answered, "strange. None escaped, I do believe, who were escorting mademoiselle's carriage. There must have been another party of the king's troops who were set upon, and these have belonged to them."

"May be," the commandant said, willing enough not to believe that this man (who had at least placed the existence of one of the most precious women in the province beyond danger) was a braggart. "May be, yet they have done more than escape, too. See, they bring prisoners. Fanatics. In chains, observe."

Looking again, Martin did observe that he spoke truly. Ahead of the cloud of dust which the horses raised on the chalk-white road he saw a band of men on foot; could count six of them, all shackled together by the wrists and shambling along, one or another falling now and again and causing the cavalry thereby to halt until they were once more on their feet. No doubt Camisard prisoners.

"Ha!" exclaimed the old man, leaning on the buttress by his side, his knotty hands placed above his eyes to shield them from the sun's last rays, and perhaps, also, to focus the advancing cavalcade, "they turn by the mill. Therefore they approach to succour us. Good! To-morrow mademoiselle will rejoin her father."

Then they bade the sentry on the walls fire a salute from the old saker which had stood them since Ru de Servas had held the castle for Henry of Navarre.

It was answered by a blast from a trumpet far down in the valley, after which the two men standing there, watching the oncoming relief, traced its progress until at last the band were on the slopes beneath the castle gateway.

"You are welcome," the commandant called out to one who rode ahead of all the others, richly apparelled in the bleu du roi coat, and wearing a well-powdered, deep wig à la brigadier which hid all of his head except his features beneath the great felt hat that he wore above the peruke; "welcome in the name of the king for whom I stand here. Are you sent, monsieur, to increase our garrison or to escort mademoiselle, his Excellency's daughter, to safety?"

"Mademoiselle, his Excellency's daughter, to safety!" the young officer exclaimed, repeating the other's words in evident astonishment-an astonishment equally testified by all at his back. "His Excellency's daughter! Is she here?"

"She is here. Did you not know it?"

"Not I! or be very sure we would have been here before. Her safety is indeed precious." Then at once he commenced an explanation of their appearance at the château.

"Monsieur," he said, "I am the nephew of M. de Broglie, and with these others have escaped the fate which has fallen on his followers. Also, by good chance, we have taken these six villainous attroupés prisoners. Yet, since they delay our progress to Alais, we have come here to ask your permission to imprison them in your château. They will be safe with you."

"Ha!" laughed the old commandant, "mort de ma vie they will. Safe! Yes, till they stand with their backs against the wall of the courtyard and with a platoon of musketeers en face. Oh, yes, very safe! Bring them in, monsieur, the gates shall be open; also to yourselves. You must not proceed to-night ere you have supped and slept-"

"It is impossible," the nephew of M. de Broglie answered. "It is impossible; we must journey on to Alais."

"And I say it is impossible you can do so. What! refuse a bite and a sup, a bed with a comrade, also the acquaintance of Monsieur l'Intendant's daughter? Fie! Nay, more, you must turn back at dawn and escort the lady to Montpellier. Ho! 'twill not be long ere you find yourself brigadier after that service."

Again the young officer protested, again said it was impossible. They must proceed even though they missed a sight of les beaux yeux de mademoiselle. Yet, even as he so protested, the commandant saw signs of his yielding and urged his plea still more.

At last, however, he won upon the other. After still more refusals, M. de Broglie's nephew, having consulted with a second officer of the troop, yielded by degrees, saying finally that they would remain until daybreak; would so far forego their duty as to sup and sleep in the castle.

And now the great gate of the château opened and all the dragoons of De Broglie and Hérault came in, the horses being tethered in the courtyard, while the wretched prisoners were told roughly by the second in command that they could throw themselves down there. Soon, he said, they would sleep well enough. Need neither pillow nor bolster!

"Yet give us bread," one whispered, "bread and to drink, though only water. Kill us not before our time."

"You shall have both," the commandant replied. "We do not starve those to death who are reserved for other things."

They all turned away after this, leaving the prisoners amid the troopers and the horses, the commandant inviting the two officers to accompany him and Martin to the platform of the castle, there to await the supper and the pleasure of being presented to his Excellency's daughter, while, as they went, Martin, who had been regarding M. de Broglie's nephew from the first moment when the troop had appeared under the castle, could not resist saying to him:

"Monsieur, I can not but think we have met before. Your face is familiar to me."

"Possibly, monsieur," the other replied with a courteous bow, though one that, Martin thought, scarcely savoured of that ease and grace which a member of the De Broglie family should possess, a great house whose scions were almost always of a certainty trained to all the courtlinesses of Versailles and St. Germain. "Possibly, monsieur. I am much about in various places. Can monsieur, par hazard, recall where we may have met?"

"Nay, nay," Martin said, "nay. And 'tis but a light fancy. Doubtless I am mistaken."

CHAPTER XVII
THE RUSE

Nevertheless he was convinced that he was not mistaken. Yet where-where had he seen this nephew of De Broglie before?

As one racks his brain to call up some circumstance or surrounding in connection with a face that puzzles him, to recollect some action associated with that face which shall assist the struggle of memory to assert itself, he racked his brain now. Yet all was of no avail, even though he brought before his mind every scene he could recollect since first he had returned to France.

Of no avail!

The full deep wig à la brigadier, the laced blue coat, the ivory-hilted sword of the young aristocrat, helped him not in the least; refused rather to assimilate themselves in his memory with the features which teased his recollection so. Yet, even as he meditated thus, while these four men-himself, the commandant, the man who perplexed him, and the officer under him-sat at supper in the old banqueting room used by generations of the De Servas, he found himself repeating those very words which had risen to his mind, "the young aristocrat."

Young aristocrat! Well, if so, a strange one, and surely not possessing the marks of breeding which a De Broglie should be the owner of! He ate roughly, coarsely, almost it seemed greedily; also he drank as a peasant drinks, in great copious draughts; laughed noisily and loudly. Moreover, from out of the ruffles of Valenciennes there protruded hands that scarcely proclaimed him a member of a well-born family. Hands broad and with ill-shapen fingers, the nails of which were flat and broken and none too clean; not the hands of one in whose veins ran the blood of countless well-born men and women!

"Pity 'tis," this scion of la vieille roche muttered to the commandant, "that mademoiselle does not honour us to-night. Tired, you say, after the fatigue of her escape from those base fanatics? Ha, sans doute! May she always escape as easily! 'Twill be well for her."

As he spoke, Martin, removing his eyes from his face, saw a sight that startled him-a sight that told him something terrible was in the air.

Far down, at the end of the old room, there was a small door, it not being the main one; and at that door, which was open about half a foot, he saw the face of Urbaine Ducaire, with, on it, an awful look of horror-a horror which had brought to her face a whiteness such as that which is upon the countenance of a corpse within its shroud; in her eyes a glare such as is in the eyes of those who have seen a sight to blast them. A glare, a look of agony, piteous to see.

At first he knew not what to do, yet even as he hesitated, undecided, he felt sure he must not draw the attention of those at the table to her, unless indeed he could attract the attention of the commandant alone, for it dawned on him, though he could not have explained why, that she, standing there behind the door, showing only that white face and those terror-haunted eyes, had been endeavouring to make the old man see her without being observed by the others.

What did it mean? What portend?

The conversation was eager between the remaining three at the table, the commandant advancing a plan for trapping the Camisards in their mountain fastnesses which Julien had a week or so before propounded, the nephew of De Broglie and his companion listening, it seemed scornfully, certainly deriding such plan.

"It will never succeed," the first of these two said; "never, never," and he laughed. "We, we of the king's forces, shall be driven back by these vile fanatics, or led into a snare, or guet-apens up in the mountains. And then woe, woe to all! Not one will return to the valleys, to the towns, to tell the tale."

Yet as he spoke, uttered such predictions of disaster, it seemed almost as though he gloated over the picture he drew.

And still Martin saw ever before him the terrified face of Urbaine Ducaire peering from behind the far-off door, the eyes glaring into the room like the eyes of one who knows that behind her comes some awful thing. With, in them, too, as it seemed to him, a piteous glance, a glance of agony that she could not attract the gaze of the man she sought-the commandant.

He could bear it no longer. Somehow he must reach her, communicate with her, know what it was that has struck such fear into her soul.

An excuse for him to leave the table seemed easy. The room had grown very hot. Already the nephew of De Broglie had protested he must remove his great wig. The commandant had said they must have air.

"I will go and open the door," Martin said, rising from his place. To open the windows would have been impossible since they were set high up in the walls, as was the case in most châteaux of the day, and could not be reached without a ladder. "The one at the farther end." And as he went toward it he prayed Heaven none would follow him. Also he saw that the girl's face was withdrawn as he rose from his chair, the door closed-to gently. Then, a moment later, he reached it.

Setting it open, he glanced into the narrow passage that ran outside, the farthest wall of this corridor having several low windows in it which gave on to the courtyard; and, turning his eyes into its dimness, he perceived Urbaine standing there, her back against the wall, her arms extended droopingly against it too, as though thereby to prevent herself from falling.

"Mademoiselle," he said, in a low voice, advancing toward her, "mademoiselle, what has distressed, terrified you thus? I fear that-"

Was she gone mad, he wondered! As he spoke she put both her hands out in front of her, removing them from the wall and extending them from her body as though to ward him off, to defend herself from him. Also she pressed her body back against that wall as if thereby she might shrink into it-away from him.

"Mademoiselle!" he exclaimed, amazed. "Mademoiselle-" but paused again, for still she drew herself away from him as from some unclean, loathsome thing. Then her white lips moved; he heard the words that issued from them.

"Traitor!" she said. "Perfidious traitor! Come not near me!" and with her hands she drew her travelling robe close round her as though to prevent even that from being contaminated by him.

"Are you distraught, mademoiselle?" he asked. "Are-?" yet stopped once more in his speech, for now, in the dusk of the night, he saw those staring eyes, which he had deemed so lovely but a few hours ago, glancing out through the passage window to the courtyard below; saw them rivetted upon something beneath in that courtyard; saw, too, that she shuddered as she gazed.

Then he too looked forth into it.

Upon the stones where the six attroupés had been flung down in their chains he saw those men standing now, free and unbound, in their hands naked weapons. The light of a newly lit flambeau flickering on one of their blades showed that it was deeply stained red. Also he saw that they too were now clad in scarlet and blue, their own rude mountain clothes discarded, flung in a heap in a corner.

And more he saw! Some were lying dead, or dying, in that courtyard; men who had but a few hours ago formed part of the garrison; the men whose clothes the others had already donned.

Like the lightning's flash there came to his mind what had happened; he understood all. The ruse was successful. The Camisards, disguised in the uniforms and trappings of the defeated soldiers of the day before, had surprised and captured the château; the trick of transporting those false prisoners had been a perfect one. Also he knew now where he had seen M. de Broglie's nephew. The deep powdered wig, the rich costume, served as disguises no longer. He recalled him! Recalled him as one who, young as he was, had taken a leading part in the massacre of the Abbé du Chaila, in the attack on Poul's convoy.

He understood, too, Urbaine's bitter words now. He was of these men's faith; she deemed him one of them! Also that he had brought her here only to betray her later into their hands. Bitter words that had sunk into his heart perhaps forever, yet she should see.

He drew his sword, advanced a step nearer to her, then retreated.

"I ask your pardon," he said, speaking very low, "that I have come near to you again. That I must address you. Yet, 'traitor' as I am, my place is still by your side. I interfered to save you yesterday. I must go on with what I have begun. One moment to warn the commandant-if-they have not slain him-then-then-mademoiselle-to save you from these men of my own faith."

But now she spoke no more, only-her eyes were fixed upon him with a strange look-he could have sworn that in the almost absolute darkness of the night which was upon them he saw her bosom heave pitiably. Then from her lips he heard beyond all doubt a gasp come.

"Fear not," he said, "they will not murder a woman. Can not, at least, murder you while I still live. Remain behind the door while I re-enter the room."

Whereon, leaving her, he pushed open the door and advanced within, his sword in his hand. As he did so he saw he had no chance; believed that he was doomed.

The room was full of men, of the mock soldiers-the Camisards disguised in the uniforms of De Broglie and of Hérault; doubtless they had entered by the main door while he had been in the passage. Also there were lights in it-two flambeaus placed in old sockets in the walls, and white-wax candles in a great lustre on the table.

In front of him was the "nephew of M. de Broglie," his powdered wig off now and his head showing a mass of long fair hair, while in his hand he too held his drawn sword. At the table, his face fallen forward upon it and his arms outstretched, was the old man, the commandant, done to death.

"You craven hound!" hissed Martin, and as he spoke his rapier darted full at the other. "You craven hound, you eat of that old man's dish, drink of his cup, and murder him! Defend yourself, assassin!"

And, forgetful of any wrong that this man's (his own) faith might have suffered at the hands of those of the commandant's creed, remembering only that he was a gentleman face to face with one whom in his heart he deemed the canaille, remembering, too, that he was a murderer, he lunged full at him.

"Malédiction!" the Camisard exclaimed, driven back by the skill of the other (skill acquired in many a cours d'escrime in Paris, and the fence school of the Guards at Kensington gravel-pits), and knowing too, himself, but little of sword play except the rough cut-and-thrust which he had practised in the mountains. "Malédiction! You shall pay dearly for this! Au sécours mes frères."

He called for succour none too soon. In another moment Martin's blade would have been through his breast. None too soon! Fortunately for him it was at hand. Like tigers rushing on their prey, half a dozen of the disguised Camisards hurled themselves upon Martin; two threw themselves on him behind, one knocked up his sword arm, two more secured him. He was disarmed, captured, at their mercy.

"Shall we knock him on the head or cut his throat, brother Cavalier?" one asked, while as he did so Martin knew that he stood before one of the two chiefs of the Cévenoles, a man whose name was a terror by now to all Languedoc, and, two centuries afterward, is still remembered.

"No," Jean Cavalier replied, "he is a bold man, of the tyrants' side though he be. Most of them will be ours now we have risen. We will spare him, for the present at least."

Then he turned to Martin, who stood there calm and contemptuous (remembering that the fellow before him had been a baker's apprentice a year or two back, as he had heard-the latter almost felt degraded at having his life spared by such a man as this), and said with an attempt at ease which he invariably adopted, and with, also, the fury he had shown gone:

"Monsieur, it is the fortune of war which puts you in our power. You must abide by it. What parish do you belong to?"

"None you ever heard of. One in the north of France. I am a stranger here."

"A stranger!" Cavalier repeated incredulously, "a stranger!" And as he did so Martin saw all the followers of the Camisards' chief gazing astonishedly at him. "A stranger! If so, what are you doing here? What have the affairs of this unhappy province to do with you? Also, why in this château?"

What answer Martin might have made to his questions, if any, was not given, since at this moment three of the men who had left the room returned, bringing with them Urbaine Ducaire. They had found her outside the door listening tremblingly to all that had happened within, rooted to the spot, almost insensible.

Yet now, as she advanced between those men, something had given her courage, had nerved her to strength. She trembled no more and, although very white and with still a strange gleam in her eyes, she walked erect; almost, to Martin observing her, it seemed defiantly. What, he wondered, had stung her to this courage? Perhaps the contempt that she too felt for her captors.

With a bow, Cavalier welcomed her, then asked:

"Have I the honour to stand face to face with the daughter of his Excellency the Intendant?"

"I am the adopted daughter of the Comte de Baville," she answered calmly. "When do you intend to slay me, as you have slain the others?" and her eyes stole to where the commandant's body lay stretched over the table.

For a moment Cavalier looked at her with a strange glance, surprised, perhaps, at her calmness; it may be, stung by her absolute indifference to his power. Then he said:

"Mademoiselle mistakes those whom she addresses. Doubtless, in these surroundings, thinks she has fallen into the hands of papists or those of similar faith. People who slay women burn them on the grandes places, belabour their bare backs. I would not be discourteous, yet mademoiselle will pardon me if I remind her that we are not of the same religion as herself, or monsieur by her side."

Or monsieur by her side! Unanswering her captor, scarcely regarding him, she stood there, a look impenetrable to Cavalier upon her face, yet with her mind full of wonderment.

Or monsieur by her side! They did not know then that he was one of them, in faith and belief at least-that-that-

"God!" she whispered to herself, still gazing beyond-through-the Camisard chief, yet with no thought of him in her mind. "God! what awful wrong have I done him again to-night, how misjudged him? To be by my side as a protection still, to share my fate, he does not avow himself a Protestant; consents to be deemed their enemy-a Catholic. And he is not a woman. There is naught to save him."