Kitabı oku: «The Scourge of God», sayfa 15

"One of their seers, a woman, divined it, proclaimed her no papist. And Cavalier has discovered those who knew her father, Urbain Ducaire."

"My God!"

CHAPTER XXVIII
BAVILLE-SUPERB!

There was a hush over the Court. Yet a hush broken and disturbed by many sounds. By the sobs of more than one woman, by the shuffling of many feet, by muttered ejaculations from those who strove to force their way nearer to where the judges sat beneath the Intendant, and once by a ribald laugh from a painted woman who leered at all around her and flung nods and smiles toward Montrevel-the woman Léonie Sabbat. By pushings, too, administered by brawny men who were possibly mountaineers to the Miquelets and even the Cravates, since if they were the former they feared not the latter; they had met before. Once an oath was heard muttered and the ominous sound of a blow, then a girl's shriek of horror. Yet at last some semblance of order was obtained, the proceedings were about to commence.

"Bring in the prisoner," exclaimed the presiding judge, Amédée Beauplan, a harsh and severe man who had sentenced countless Protestants to the various forms of death dealt out to those of that religion; and his words were re-echoed by the greffiers.

A moment later Martin Ashurst stood before all assembled there. And as he did so many women were heard to weep afresh. Perhaps his handsome manhood recalled to them some of their own men who had once stood where he was standing now. Alone among her sex Léonie Sabbat, who was eating Lunel grapes from a basket, laughed.

"Tiens!" she muttered, addressing herself to an elderly decorous-looking woman who was close by her, but who shrank away from the courtesan as though she were some noxious reptile, "regardez moi ça. A fool! One who might have had wealth, vast wealth. Now see him! Doomed to death, as he will be in an hour. I know his story. Tout même, il est beau!" and she spat the grape seeds out upon the floor at her feet.

Baville's eyes, roaming round the Court, yet apparently observing nothing, he seeming indeed supremely oblivious of all that was taking place, lighted casually upon two persons hemmed in by many others. A man well enough clad in a simple suit of russet brown, who looked somewhat like a notary's clerk, his wig en pleine échaudé covering the greater part of his cheeks, so that from out of it little could be seen but his eyes, nose, and mouth. An idle fellow, the Intendant deemed him, a scrivener who had probably brought his old mother to see the spectacle. For he held in his hand that of an aged woman whose eyes alone were visible beneath the rough Marseilles shawl with which her head was enveloped, and with, about her brow, some spare locks that were iron-gray.

The pair were not, however, always visible to Baville even from his raised seat; sometimes the movements of others by whom they were surrounded-of a fat and gloating monk, or of a weak and shivering Protestant, or of a crowd of gossips from out the streets-obscured them from him momentarily. Yet, as the trial went on, they came across his view now and again, the youth holding always the old woman's hand. And seeing that woman's hollow eyes fixed on him always, Baville shuddered. He knew her now, from a far-off yet well-remembered past; her face rose as a phantom rises.

That Martin, standing there, calm, almost indifferent, his hands folded on the rail in front of him, should be the principal object of attention in that crowded place was natural. For he was, as all knew, awaiting a sentence that must indubitably be awarded ere long. All knew also that the trial was but a preliminary farce leading up to the great dénoûment.

That trial, such as it was, drew near to its close. Witness had been heard; Montglas, who had seen Martin snatch Urbaine Ducaire from her coach and ride off with her; also the one man who had escaped from the massacre at the Château St. Servas; also the three men who had been present on the beach near Cette and had seen the English spy hand and glove with the Camisards-all had testified, Montglas alone with regret and emotion.

"You swear this is the truth?" Beauplan said to him, looking up from the papers on his desk before him. "There is no doubt?"

"It is the truth," the young dragoon had answered. "Yet I would that other lips had had to speak. He spared my life but yesterday when it was in his hands."

"He has led to the death of many others. Also he is an English spy. Mes frères," he went on, turning to each of the other judges and whispering low, so that none but the silent Intendant sitting above could hear, "what is our verdict? We need not long deliberate, I imagine."

Both those others fixed also their eyes upon him acquiescingly, yet neither spoke. Words were not wanted.

Then Beauplan, turning his head over his shoulder toward the man who represented the King's majesty, and seeing that he sat there calm and impassable, statue-like, inscrutable, rose from his seat and made three solemn bows to Baville.

"We await permission to pronounce sentence," he said.

"Pronounce-it," and Baville drew a long breath between the two words. Yet the handsome face changed not. Or only grew more ivory-like-so ivory-like that those standing in that hall, both enemies and adherents, cast back their thoughts to their dead whom they had seen lying in their shrouds ere the coffin lid closed over and hid them forever.

"What does he see that blasts him?" whispered Montrevel in Fléchier's ear, and the bishop, turning his own white face to the inflamed one of the great bravo, muttered, "God, he knows, he only."

In the crowd beyond the railed-off place where the principals sat the effect was the same. Among all who now fixed their eyes on Baville, the greater number asked: "What does he see?" and glanced over their shoulders as though expecting themselves to see something terrible.

"Can the dead rise?" exclaimed one swarthy Cévenole who, in any other circumstances than the present, would have been arrested for an attroupé ere he had been an hour in Nîmes; have been borne to the earth by the Cravates and loaded with chains ere hurried to a dungeon, so certain did it appear that he was a Camisard. "Can the burned ashes of our loved ones come together again, the limbs that have rotted on the gibbets be restored to life? Has one of those come back to paralyze him?" And he laughed bitterly.

"Il est lâche," whispered Léonie Sabbat through her small white teeth. "Mon Dieu! il a peur. Fichtre pour Baville!" and she pressed her plump jewelled hand on the shoulder of her unwilling neighbour as she craned her neck over the balcony to observe the man she jibed at.

Yet he was no coward. Only his heart sickened within him. With fear, but not the fear of either phantom risen from the dead or of fierce Camisard ready to send him to join the dead. Sickened at the sight of that aged woman who never took her eyes off him, who seemed about to address all assembled there. For he remembered her. Recognised her face now beyond all doubt. Remembered one night-how long ago it seemed! – when all the land lay under the snow, and when, at the foot of the mountains the tourbillon whirled down from the heights above great flurries of other snow which froze as it fell, and struck and cut the faces of those riding through the wintry storm as knives or whipcord strike and cut. Recalled how he himself riding through the tourmente, followed by a dozen of his guard, had to strike breast and body to prevent this freezing snow from ensheathing him in its swift, hardening masses. Yet of what account such memory as that compared to another which followed swiftly in its train!

The memory of a humble peasant's cot, a man stricken with years reading his Bible by the fireside, a child playing at his feet, rolling about the floor laughing and crowing as it teased a good-natured hound that endeavoured, unavailingly, to sleep before the crackling logs. Then a word from the man, another from him-O God! how fearfully, horribly misunderstood! Next, the room full of smoke and the smell of powder, the man gasping out his life, gasping, too, one last muttered sentence, whispering that he, Baville, was forever smitten by God's frown. And on the rude staircase that led from behind the deep chimney to the room above a comely woman standing, the little child clasped in her arms, her face distorted with terror, her voice shrieking that he was a murderer, an assassin.

A comely woman then, now an old one and before him, there, in the body of the Court.

What if she and Urbaine should meet? What if they had met?

The doomed man, the man upon whom Amédée Beauplan was about to pronounce sentence, had said that Cavalier had discovered those who knew her father, Urbain Ducaire. Was she one of those whom the Camisard chief had discovered, and had she told all?

"Is he mad?" some in the Court asked again, while others answered, "More like stricken with remorse or fear." Yet surely not the latter, since now he repeated his last words referring to the sentence.

"Pronounce-it."

Yet with his eyes never off that woman's face.

A moment later and it was done; the sentence delivered, even as it had been delivered again and again in Nîmes and Avignon, Montpellier and Alais within the last few months by red-robed legal functionaries, and, in countless bourgs and villages, by rough soldiers acting as judges. A sentence of death by the flames before the Beau Dieu of the cathedral, to take place at the time ordered by the King's representative, Baville. The ashes afterward to be scattered to the winds.

Yet, as Amédée Beauplan's voice ceased, others were heard in the Court, rising above all the noise made by the movement of the spectators passing out into the street, by the orders shouted from officers to men to clear that Court, and by the loud murmurings either of approbation or disapproval which were heard.

"It will never take place," one clear, high-toned voice was heard above all others to cry, "never. Ere it does, Nîmes shall be consumed to ashes."

And Martin, turning as the warders prepared to take him back to his cell, saw from whose lips that cry had come. From Cavalier, the man dressed in russet-brown and with his features hidden by the long black wig.

Perhaps, too, Baville suspected who might be the utterer of that ominous threat, for now he rose from his seat once more, again he stood erect and commanding; except for his pallor, which still remained, he was himself as ever.

"Stop!" he cried, his voice ringing like a clarion above all the other sounds, the shuffling of feet, the murmurings and mutterings, and the clank of sabres; "stop and hear my words!" And seeing that all eyes were turned toward him, he continued, his tones as firm and unshaken as though the events of the past hour had had no actual existence:

"In this hall to-day are present-I know it well-many who are rebels to the King's, to my authority. Men whose lives are forfeit even as the lives of countless others have been forfeited. Enough! To-day they are safe. This Court is open, but for to-day only. Let those rebels therefore take heed. For so sure as there is a God above us, so sure as I, Baville, Intendant of Languedoc and representative of his Majesty, stand here, those rebels who are found in this city at nightfall shall follow the same road their brethren have trod before them. You have called me the Tiger of Languedoc, and, by the splendour of Heaven, a tiger you shall still find me. Till rebellion is crushed forever from out this province, so long as I live, never will I spare one who takes up arms against the anointed King of France. Now," and he sank back on to his chair, "begone all of you out of Nîmes. To-night I cause a house-to-house visitation to be made-ay! a search from room to room. Those found here die. Begone, therefore, while there is yet time."

Then, without waiting to hear what answer might be made to his threats by any in the crowd, he rose and, passing to the heavily curtained door which led from out the Court, left them. Yet ere he did so, and even while the attendants held back that curtain for him to pass through, he paused once and, facing all there, gazed on them calmly.

A moment later he was gone; gone without hearing the curses and objurgations muttered by many lips, the loud "Brava" which Montrevel gave utterance to, or the little rippling laugh that issued from Léonie Sabbat's lips as again she struck her unwilling neighbour on the shoulder with her white hand and exclaimed, "Avec tout, il est superbe."

Had she seen him, however, the instant after the heavily figured arras had fallen behind him, she might have deemed he was less strong and masterful than she had a moment before grudgingly allowed him to be. For even as he passed down the passage which led to the door at which his heavily-gilt state-coach awaited him, an exact facsimile of that in which Le Roi Soleil himself travelled from Versailles to Marly or from St. Germain to Fontainebleau, he walked unsteadily and his white brow was moist and damp.

"If she should have met Urbaine," he muttered as he passed along the passage, "or if she should meet her, and tell all!"

CHAPTER XXIX
"HER FATHER'S MURDERER."

"I have not yet decided," Baville said that night to Beauplan as they sat together in the new citadel, "when the sentence will be carried out. Have my doubts as to whether I shall not release him."

"Release him!" the other echoed. "Release him! Such a thing is unheard of. He, an Englishman, a consorter with the Camisards, a man under the ban of Versailles! Surely you would not dare-"

"Dare!" exclaimed Baville, though very quietly, "dare! Monsieur Beauplan, you forget yourself. Since I have ruled in Languedoc no man has dared to use that word to me before."

"Yet," said the judge, a member of an ancient family in the south, who had always rebelled against the authority of this stranger to the customs, as well as the noblesse, of Languedoc, "though none here may question your authority, there are those in the capital who can do so."

"There are. But you are not of the number. Monsieur Beauplan, I have nothing more to say. I wish you a good-night."

"I understand," Beauplan replied, "understand very well. And your conduct is natural; also natural that there should be an exchange of prisoners, that your child's release should depend upon his. Yet beware, Monsieur l'Intendant! I was at Versailles two months ago, as you know, and-and-they said-" and he hesitated a moment while a slight smile came into his face.

"What did they say?"

"That not only might a substitute he sent in place of Montrevel, but of-"

"Baville! Is that it?"

"It is that."

"The substitute to be, perhaps, Amédée Beauplan."

"Nay, that is impossible, as you are aware. In Languedoc none can rule as Intendant who are of the province. Yet I warn you, if you set free this man even in the desire to obtain the freedom of Urbaine Ducaire, neither Chamillart nor Madame de Maintenon will forgive."

"You mean well, doubtless," Baville replied, "yet I shall act as I see best. Beauplan, you have children of your own, also a high post. If the life of one of your girls were balanced against that post, which should you prefer to protect?"

To this the judge made no answer, leaving the Intendant alone a moment afterward. Yet, as he sought his own great sumptuous coach, he acknowledged that, much as he detested Baville, what he was undoubtedly about to do was natural.

Left alone, the other took from his pocket a paper and glanced at it as, before the judge had appeared in his room, he had glanced at it a dozen times-a paper on which were written only a few words. They ran:

"Urbaine Ducaire will be restored unharmed to none other than the Englishman sentenced to death to-day. If he dies she dies too. Nothing can save her, even though she is a Huguenot. Decide, therefore, and decide quickly." And it was signed "Jean Cavalier."

"So," he mused, "he was in the Court to-day, or sent this message by one of his followers, knowing well what the sentence would be. Yet the decision was made ere this paper was smuggled in here, God knows how! It needed not this to determine me."

He struck upon the bell by his side as he thus reflected, and, on the servant appearing in answer to it, he asked:

"How came this paper here which I found upon my table?" and he touched with his finger the letter from Cavalier.

"It was left, monsieur, by a woman."

"A woman! Of what description?"

"Old, monsieur, gray and worn. She said, monsieur, that it was of the first importance. A matter of life and death."

Again, as the lackey spoke, there came that feeling to the other's heart of icy coldness, the feeling of utter despair which had seized upon him earlier, as he saw her face in Court. For he never doubted that the bearer of the missive was the same woman who appeared as a spectre before him at the trial-the woman who could tell Urbaine all.

"Where have they disposed the man who was tried and sentenced to-day?" he asked next.

"In the same room he has occupied since he was brought here, monsieur."

"So! Let him be brought to this room. I have to speak with him."

"Here, monsieur!" the man exclaimed with an air of astonishment which he could not repress.

"Here."

Ten minutes later and Martin was before him, he having been conducted from the wing of the citadel in which he was confined to the adjacent one in which Baville's set of apartments were.

His escort consisted of two warders who were of the milice; nor was there any need that he should have more to guard him, for his hands were manacled with great steel gyves, the lower ends of which were attached by ring bolts to his legs above his knees. Yet, since they could have had no idea that there was any possibility of one so fettered as he escaping from their custody, the careful manner in which these men stood by their prisoner could have been but assumed with a view to finding favour with the ruler of the province.

As Martin confronted the other, their eyes met in one swift glance; then Baville's were quickly lowered. Before that man, the man whom Urbaine loved, the man who had saved her life, who could restore her once more to his arms-if, knowing what she might know, she would ever return to them-the all-powerful Intendant felt himself abased.

"Who," he said, addressing the warders, "has the key of those irons?"

"I, monsieur," one answered.

"Remove them."

"Monsieur!"

"Do as I bid you."

With a glance at his comrade (the fellow said afterward that the Intendant had gone mad) the one thus addressed did as he was ordered. A moment later and Martin and Baville were alone, the warders dismissed with a curt word, and hurrying off to tell their mates and comrades that the rebellion must be over since the trial of the morning could have been but a farce.

Then Baville rose and, standing before Martin, said:

"You see, I keep my promise. You are free."

"Free! To do what? Rejoin Urbaine?"

"Ay, to rejoin Urbaine. For that alone, upon one stipulation."

"What is the stipulation?"

"That-that-she and I meet again!"

"Meet again! Why not?"

Instead of replying to this question Baville asked Martin another.

"Was," he demanded, speaking swiftly, "Cavalier in Court to-day, dressed in a russet suit, disguised in a long black wig?"

"Yes," the other replied, "he was there."

"And the woman with him, old, gray-haired, is she one of the dwellers in the mountains, one of his band?"

"Nay. Her I have never seen."

"She can not then have met, have come into contact with Urbaine?"

"How can I say? It is a week since I left Urbaine there, safe with him in those mountains. Since then many things have happened, among others the horrors of Mercier's mill."

"It was not my doing," Baville answered hotly. "Not mine; Montrevel is alone answerable for that. I was away at the beginning, on my road back from Valence. None can visit that upon my head. Yet-yet-rather should fifty such horrors happen, rather that I myself should perish in such a catastrophe, than that this woman and Urbaine should ever meet."

As he spoke there came to Martin's memory the words that Cavalier had uttered to him. "Ere she leaves us there is something to be told her as regards Baville's friendship for her father, Ducaire. And when she has heard that, it may be she will never wish to return to him, to set eyes on her beloved Intendant again."

Was this woman of whom Baville spoke the one who could tell her that which would cause her the great revulsion of feeling which Cavalier had hinted at?

"Why should they never meet?" he asked, the question forced from him by the recollection of the Camisard's words joined to Baville's present emotion.

"Because," the other replied, his face once more the colour of death, the usually rich full voice dull and choked, "because-O God! that I should have to say it-because I am, though all unwittingly, her father's murderer. And that woman knows it."

"You! Her father's murderer!"

"Yes, I." Then he went on rapidly, his tones once more those of command, his bearing that of the ruler before whom stood a prisoner in his power. "But ask me no more. It was all a hideous, an awful mistake. I loved Urbain Ducaire; would have saved him. And-and-by that mistake I slew him. Also, I love his child-his! – nay, mine, by all the years in which I have cherished, nurtured her. Oh, Urbaine, Urbaine, ma mie, ma petite!" he whispered, as though there were none other present to see him in this, his dark hour. "Urbaine, if you learn this you will come to hate me as all in Languedoc hate me."

"Be comforted," Martin exclaimed, touched to the heart by the man's grief, forgetful, too, of all the horrible instances of severity linked with his name, "be comforted. She must never meet that woman, never know. Only," he almost moaned, remembering all that the knowledge of this awful thing would bring to her, "how to prevent it. How to prevent it."

"I have it," Baville said, and he straightened himself, was alert, strong again, "I have it. I said but now I would, must, see her once more. But, God help me! I renounce that hope forever. To save her from that knowledge, to save her heart from breaking, I forego all hopes of ever looking on her face again, ever hearing her whisper 'Father' in my ear more. And you, you alone, can save her. You must fly with her, away, out of France. Then-God, he knows! – she and I will be far enough apart. Also she will be far enough away from that woman who can denounce me."

"But how, how, how? Where can we fly? All Languedoc, all the south, is blocked with the King's, with your, troops-"

"Nay, the Camisards can help you. Can creep like snakes across the frontier to Switzerland, to the Duke of Savoy's dominions. You must go-at once. You are free, I say," and he stamped his foot in his excitement. "Go, go, go. I set you free, annul this trial, declare it void. Only go, for God's sake go, and find her ere it is too late."

"I need no second bidding," Martin answered, his heart beating high within him at the very thought of flying to Urbaine, of seeing her again and of clasping her to his arms, and, once across the frontier, of never more being parted from her; of his own freedom which would thereby be assured he thought not one jot, the full joy of possessing Urbaine forever eclipsing the delight of that newly restored liberty entirely; "desire naught else. Only, how will you answer for it?"

"Answer!" Baville exclaimed. "Answer! To whom shall I answer but to Louis? And though I pay with my head for my treachery, if treachery it is, she will be safe from the revelation of my fault. That before all."

"When shall I depart?" Martin asked briefly.

"Now, to-night, at once. Lose no moment. A horse shall be prepared for you. Also a pass that will take you through any of the King's forces you may encounter on the road to the mountains. Once there, you are known to the Camisards and-and she will be restored to you."

"Will they let me pass the gate?"

"Let you pass the gate! Pass the gate! Ay, since I go with you as far as that. Let us see who will dare to stop you."

An hour later Martin was a free man.

Free, that is, in so far that he had passed the Porte des Carmes and was once more upon the road toward the mountains, toward where Urbaine Ducaire was. Yet with all around him the troops of Montrevel, the field marshal having sallied forth that morning intent upon more slaughter and bloodshed, and with, still farther off, the Camisards under Cavalier in one division and under Roland in another, descending, if all accounts were true, upon Nîmes and Alais with a full intention of avenging mercilessly the burning of their brethren in the mill.

Yet, sweet as was the sense of that freedom, sweet, too, as was the hope that ere many more hours would be passed he and Urbaine would have met once more never again to part, he could not but reflect upon the heartbrokenness of Baville as he bid him Godspeed.

"Save her, save her," he whispered as they stood at the Great Gate, "save her from France, above all from the knowledge of what happened so long ago. Fly with her to Switzerland and thence to your own land; there you can live happily. And-and-tell me ere you go that from your lips she shall never know aught. Grant me that prayer at the last."

"Out of my love for her, out of the hopes that in all the years which I pray God to let me spend with her, no sorrow may come near her, I promise. If it rests with me you shall be always the same in her memory as you have been in actual life. I promise. And perhaps when happier days shall dawn, you and your wife and she may all meet again."

"Perhaps," Baville replied, "perhaps." Then from the breast of this man whose name was execrated in every land to which French Protestants had fled for asylum, this man of whom all said that his heart, if heart he had, was formed of marble, there issued a deep sob ere he moaned: "Be good to her. Shield her from harm, I implore you. She was all we had to love. Almost the only thing on earth that loved me. Farewell!"