"Proceed," said the Lord of Basville, "you are approaching nearer the point to my satisfaction."
"You know it as well as I do," replied Vila, "the scandal is notorious throughout the whole country. He would have been forced to come here baldheaded to speak and answer. I will even consent that one may dispense with ruffles, lay down his sword, embroidery on the garments, or the cravat may also without herisy be esteemed as superfluous; but if you consider, that for more than ten years, he lived there yonder in his desert without a wig like a Theban hermit, you cannot then possibly have any confidence in the orthodoxy of his sentiments. How should his head remain sound, when he gives himself up, thus naked to all weathers, all society, all sorts of phrases, wit, and nonsense. It is indeed like a fortress, where they have broken down the walls and redoubt. There, in war, all the rabble ride in without obstruction."
"You are childish," said the Lord of Basville, "but where does the Lady of Castelnau remain, you must know that she has disappeared. In all these circ.u.mstances we see, say what you will, a concerted plot."
"Ah poor Christine!" sighed Vila plaintively; "I now know for the first time, how much I have loved the n.o.ble girl. She is no longer indeed in her house, but the Lord Marshal will best be able to give intelligence of her retreat."
"I?" demanded the latter.
"All the world says, at least," continued the doctor, "that you have caused her to be incarcerated, and that is not entirely without probability, as the imprudent girl, some time ago, wholly lost sight of the esteem she owes you."
"It were derogatory to my dignity," said the Marshal, "to revenge inpertinences by means of my office.
"Where one cannot inspire love," said the doctor, "which one may reasonably expect, then terror and the due punishment of the object must suffice." "I give you my word of honour, I know nothing of the little fool!" said the Marshal blushing.
"It is very possible," answered Vila, "that you do not know exactly in which dungeon she languishes, since within the last few years we have considerably increased these establishments."
"Sir!" exclaimed the Marshal,--"I think, my Lord Intendant, we may dismiss this dotard, for it is in vain to hope to hear a word of sense from him. You may thank the Lord Marquis and his zealous intercession, or rather his caprice, not to suffer himself to be cured by any one else, that your insolence, which affects madness, is permitted to go from hence unchastised. But beware that you hold no correspondence with the rebels and suspected persons, or we shall speak again together and then in a higher tone."
"As it may please you to order it," said the doctor, and retired with a low bow. His carriage stood at the door, he went however first into the stables of the court to seek an old servant, whom he intended to take to St. Hypolite with him, the latter advanced groaning, limping and with head and arm bound up. "Coachman," cried Vila to his driver, "make room on the box for this old servant of mine."
In the mean while Colonel Julien came down the street; "What sort of merchandise are you carrying off with you there?" asked he, scrutinising the wounded man.
"My superannuated Conrad," replied the doctor; "the stupid knave found himself in a village yesterday and took it into his head to engage in the conversion of a Camisard, who in the true rebel fashion began to deal out blows, my decrepid enthusiast would let neither his king, nor his Lord G.o.d be outraged and on that account is so bedecked, that our Phylax at home will scarcely recognise him again." "Look," said the Colonel, "the poor cripple trembles so, that he cannot attain the high coach-box. He does not appear accustomed to such a place. Help him a little, reverend priest."
The st.u.r.dy vicar of St. Sulpice, who had pressed forward, helped up the old man with arms and shoulders. "Accustomed, or not accustomed!" cried Vila, vexedly, "he may thank heaven, that I take him with me at all. A knave, who at his years still addicts himself to pugilism, is good for nothing in my peaceable house. Times, indeed, seem strange enough, so that the rabble will soon, perhaps, a.s.sert their pretensions to ride with me in my carriage."
"You would have room enough," said the Colonel, taking leave of the doctor, who had already seated himself at his ease.--
"Now, drive on!" said Vila, "and not too fast, particularly over the stones, for all my sides, and my head into the bargain, are as if they were crushed, and take care that that old spectre does not perchance tumble from the box,--Adieu, reverend priest!"--The coach drove down the street and out through the gate.
The high road was filled with soldiers and militia, the coach was forced to stop in many places to let the troops go by. At length, when they had taken another road towards the mountains, the journey could be continued without interruption. The doctor was very uneasy, and looked round on all sides, muttered to himself, and was alternately moved, and vexed. At last, when the country became rather solitary he ordered the carriage to stop, descended and a.s.sisted the wounded Conrad, as he had called him in the town, himself, from the coach box. "My poor, old friend!" exclaimed he embracing him with the greatest emotion: "How fares it with you? do you feel fatigued? come now inside here with me, and pardon all that I have been forced to do for your safety."
"I am tolerably well, my kind, faithful friend," answered the Lord of Beauvais: "but render me one more loving service, that we may once more visit the ruins of my dwelling."
Vila gave directions to the coachman, and they both ascended into the carriage.
"But why will you make your heart still heavier?" commenced the doctor.
"Come rather directly with me, that I may conduct you to the little rural asylum, in order to conceal you there until better times. For it is not to be thought of, that they will now be able to carry you over the frontiers in safety."
"Oh my poor country!" sighed the Counsellor of Parliament: "men of probity must now seek hiding-places like criminals. I will only go once more to the great hall: an iron closet has perhaps been spared by the robbers and the flames, in it lies the portrait of my wife, which in the hurry, I forgot to pack up. It would be very painful to me to lose this dear remembrance." The sun had already set, and they were now approaching their native, well-known place. From the blackened walls, dense, smoky clouds were still rising, although the fire appeared extinguished. The carriage stopped, the travellers descended from it; a lantern was lighted, and the Counsellor could not avoid wondering at the difficulty he experienced in finding his way through the formerly so well-known mansion. Fallen beams reduced to cinders lay extinguished, and obstructed the entrance to the hall, ashes and rubbish filled the vast s.p.a.ce, it was impossible to recognise any thing, the walls alone still indicated the former seat of happiness and peace. The lantern threw a pale wavering glimmer over the sad destruction, and while the father tremblingly felt about by its light for the closet, he thought he heard a voice in another apartment.
As he listened more attentively, all was still; yet after a short interval, a deep, painful sigh was heard again, and then as if from a heavily oppressed bosom resounded these words: "Yes, my sinful fire has laid this dwelling in ashes, my wicked impetuosity has murdered the happiness of this beloved house."
"Oh my unhappy son!" exclaimed the old man as he endeavoured to reach that apartment; but Edmond advanced immediately, sank down before him and embraced his knees. "Can you forgive? can you still love me?" cried he in violent emotion; "I, I, wretch that I am, have flung the brand into this house, I have rendered you and my sister miserable, I am indeed the cause of your death. Oh, most gracious, mildest of men, with what a torn heart do I lie here at your feet, unworthy to embrace them, unworthy of the dust.--"
The old man raised, pressed him to his heart and said: "Not so, my son, we are not to criticise and blame the ways of destiny in so short-sighted a manner. It was you, as I well know, who delivered me from the hands of the incendiaries. Your heart has remained to me; those walls, this inanimate possession belonged not to my happiness and existence, you are nearer to me, you are, G.o.d be praised! not lost to me. Let me enjoy the satisfaction of having found you again among the ruins, and I will thank Heaven with heartfelt tears for my calamity.
Follow me now and abandon your unfortunate covenant. The time and favourable moment will be found, when we may fly over the frontiers of our native land, and under another sky be permitted to rear the blessing of our love again."
"Only require not this of me, generous man," cried Edmond, as if in unconscious anger: "at least I must punish, avenge, retaliate, in some degree on our and G.o.d"s foes. Oh Catinat! how unjust I have been in censuring thee. No, I will not degrade mercy so far by wasting it on these wretches, who might take the tiger in apprenticeship in order to augment his malice and cruelty."
Vila came up with the lantern and turned the light upon the youth"s pale, agitated countenance, saying with the greatest good nature: "ah!
Ned! my boy! be advised: now for once only follow your aged parent there, who has ever merely required from you what is quite reasonable."
"Leave vengeance to Him," said the father in a powerful voice, "to Him, who rules, permits and superintends all, and in whose almighty arm our wrath and weakness, are no longer vengeance! I do not understand the word. Our hearts were not created for this feeling."
"Still and ever the same folly!" cried a deep voice from behind and the gaunt figure of the grey-headed Lacoste was groping his way towards them in the dark, over heaps of rubbish. "Vengeance! hatred!" exclaimed he; "who knows not those sentiments, knows love but in part. Knowest thou me still, thy rival, the Lacoste, whom thou renderedst many years ago so unhappy? Who meant thee evil were it not for thy gallant Edmond."
"How comest thou here?" cried the father astounded. "What art thou doing here?"
"I am become thy son"s dog," replied the former, "I do him what service I can, at least I run after him, out of grat.i.tude, because he has saved my life."
"I have scarcely time and feeling," said the Lord of Beauvais, "to wonder at this extraordinary rencontre."
"The hour presses indeed," cried Vila, "we have yet a long way before us and we must take advantage of the night."
"Here is the concealed closet still unconsumed," cried the Counsellor of Parliament, "just as I had supposed." He took a key, opened and held a light into it, among various articles, which were kept there, he found the picture in a little casket. He gazed upon it with tears, and was going to attach it to his person, when Lacoste seized his hand and said: "Only one moment, for the sake of former acquaintance and friendship: suffer this face after so many years to blossom once again in my desolate heart."
The father gave it to him trembling; Lacoste held it close to the light and gazed fixedly on it with his widely opened grey eyes; a tear unconsciously escaped him, he imprinted a kiss on the portrait and returned it to the Counsellor. "See, see," said he to himself, "every man remains still a fool, let him behave as he will. If they can feel and imagine as much over their relics, as I at this moment feel, then the unfortunate ones are not so entirely in error."
"Roland is stationed in the neighbourhood with his troops; a few of us may conduct your dear father, as far as you wish, so that at least our party does not harm you."
"Prudently spoken," said Lacoste, "for we are, with permission, very outrageous people."
The Counsellor of Parliament re-ascended the carriage with his friend, saying: "We are now indeed so far on our road, that the usual precaution becomes superfluous. Let us only be careful, that our friend Vila meets with no misfortune on our account." "Were my son only reasonable," said the latter, "they might do what they liked with me, old, half dead and worn out sinner; to die is almost a diversion to be sought for, to that have the ruling lords pushed affairs."
They drove off, and Edmond and Lacoste followed on horseback, in order to accompany them to Roland"s troop.
CHAPTER V.
When the night was nearly elapsed and that Roland had long with-drawn with his troop into the distance, the little escorting band of Camisards was suddenly surprised, out of an ambush, by a considerable mult.i.tude of royalists. It was in the direction of Florac, where Vila with his friend had intended to seek a place of refuge, which he deemed safe. The confusion was general, and it seemed, that the destruction of the little troop of Camisards, as well as that of the travellers, was absolutely inevitable. During the firing and cries, Vila sprang from the carriage with pistols in his hand, and the Counsellor of Parliament followed him, without knowing clearly what was going to happen. By the grey light of the morning it was discovered that the attack was given from a valley lying sideways; the travellers were on the heights. The Counsellor of Parliament, who had quitted the carriage the last, saw immediately, that all were engaged in a melee, the royalists seemed to give way, when a second troop rushed out of the underwood of whom it was difficult to decide whether they were soldiers, or rebels. Before however the Counsellor was able to gain any certainty, or to form any resolution, the coachman laid hold of him, pressed him urgently to get into the carriage, and as he saw the old man"s hesitation, he lifted him into it almost forcibly. "Better without the master, than to perish here with him, he will soon find us again," cried he in the utmost anxiety, and whipped the horses, so that they started off snorting in full gallop over hill and dale. After some time the Lord of Beauvais recovered his recollection and with much argument and dispute, he compelled the obstinate man to stand still again. On the summit of a mountain, from whence they could overlook the whole surrounding country, they awaited the one, who had remained behind. Of the combat nothing more was to be discovered: it seemed as if far in the distance a band of fugitives was flying; but nothing could be clearly distinguished. At length they espied two riders emerge from a copse, who pursued the same road. They approached nearer and the doctor was now seen waving a handkerchief and working his way up to the summit, mounted on a little horse. A young lad with his head bound up was following him. "You did well," cried he, when he arrived at the top, "to retreat immediately at the commencement of the battle; that is dull, insipid business, which does not suit us civilians."
"There Martin, for such is your name, take the nag again to yourself and do what you will with him." With these words he dismounted, and betook himself to the carriage, where he was first obliged to listen to many self-praises from his coachman, who wished to appropriate to himself the whole credit of this clever retreat, and on account of whose over-haste, the Lord of Beauvais abashed, entreated the pardon of his old friend. "It was no over-haste," cried Vila, "but the most prudent that could have occurred, I ought to have remained sitting in the carriage, for my little bit of firing was like a drop in the stream compared to the bravery of the Camisards; with them none of us can engage. These knaves understand no reason, whether b.a.l.l.s fly, or swords glitter, it is to them mere pastime, and the smallest boys, who are scarcely weaned from their mother"s breast, are just as much infatuated with this devilry as any of the oldest grey beards. I have seen that, for once quite close, which I could not have believed by hearsay; but now that I have witnessed it, it is enough for the rest of my life."
They stopped at a lonely inn to refresh the horses, and while they were enjoying their breakfast the doctor proceeded to relate the sequel of the event to his old friend. "How fortunate." he commenced, "that you were not present at our battle, for only think, your Edmond continued to accompany us, he would not be dissuaded from attending in person to your safety. When the scene now opened he was ever foremost. There was a young lad, who then came forward. "From whence come you?" shouted the Camisards.--"What"s that to you," answered the impudent fellow,--"You are a traitor."--"Wherefore insult," cried the little man, "honest people act not thus."--"Hew him down!" cried another.--"Hew me down;"
said the hop of my thumb, "when I would sacrifice my life for you."--"Who art thou?" was again reiterated.--"My name is Martin, further it is not necessary for you to know."--Inquiry was cut short by firing and hewing down. It came near me, and I felt a goose-skin all over my body. I had already spent my powder without, perhaps, having hit any one, when the gigantic Lacoste took compa.s.sion on my trouble, and hewed down the knaves together as if they had been merely poppy heads. But Edmond who tried to cut his way through to me, got into a desperate melee. Two dragoons fell upon him, and struck furiously; but before they were able to hit, behold, my dear friend--the little rascal Martin, cut down one of them from his horse, and shot the other at the same moment almost through the breast, as if the urchin had been accustomed to nothing else all his life long. The stout Lacoste, the dog as he styles himself, was not tardy either, and your son lost neither courage nor strength; the Camisards were like so many devils, and thus those of the true faith were obliged to leave the field to us, on which a great number of their friends remained lying.--I could not discern my poor, dear son; he may very likely have gone with the main body of the troops; if they have not already slain, or taken him prisoner."
"And Martin! the boy, of whom you spoke, who so valiantly saved my son"s life?" inquired the Lord of Beauvais.
"Martin;" cried the doctor aloud: "where then do you hide yourself?
yes, that"s true indeed, you are both indebted to the stripling. He wore, when he entered, a thick handkerchief round his head, it may have been from a blow that reached him; after he had rescued your son, he received a right deep cut in the head again from a sabre, so that a stream of blood gushed out. As if for a change, he wiped his nose and without ceremony bound a second turban over the first, though he turned ghastly pale from it.--Martin! Where then is the rascal!" But there was no one to answer his call. "Thus is it with foolish youth," said the doctor vexedly: "he has misunderstood me about taking back the horse, and in his simplicity returned immediately. Poor youth! I trust no fever may be added to it."
"It would make me miserable," said the Counsellor, "if I should not be able to testify my thanks to the dear boy. If I were persuaded that he was suffering, ill, helpless, or dying, I should weep tears of blood."
"It will not turn out so bad as that," muttered Vila chagrined: "Why should the oaf run off thus, as if----Aye! Aye! at least I would have bound up his wounds for him. But now, the devil will not catch him directly. Such Camisard webs are usually formed of very tough materials."