The Scourge of God: A Romance of Religious Persecution
when, up from the Mediterranean, but a few leagues away, there come
the cool breezes that sunset invariably brings, and when, from the
caps of the purple mountains, the soft evening air descends, passing
over cornfields and meadows and woods after it has left the sterile
and basaltic summits until, when it reaches the valleys, its breath is
perfumed and odorous. Summer nights so calm and soft that here the
nightingale remains later than is its wont in other spots and sings
sometimes far into August and September, the throats of hundreds of
birds making the whole valley musical.
Now, however, their trills were drowned by the clank of sabres against
the flanks of the horses bestridden by the dragoons, by the rattle of
chain and bridle, the occasional neigh of the animals, and by various
orders given as all went forward. Also by the hum of conversation as
the men talked to one another.
Suddenly upon the night air, however, there came now another sound,
silencing and deadening all else--a sound that subdued and deadened
even the clatter of harness and accoutrements, the voices of the men,
the songs of the birds of night. The sound of the deep booming of a
bell not far off which swelled and rose in the summer calm, as
sometimes it rang violently and sometimes slowly and intermittently,
sometimes ceased, too, and then began again, with sharp, hurried
clangs, as though rung by some frightened, terror-stricken hand.
"It is the tocsin," one hoarse-throated dragoon called out, who rode
in the troop behind the leaders, "the tocsin from some village church.
Is more murder being done? Are more abbés being slaughtered?"
"The fellow speaks truly," de Peyre said, then roared himself at the
top of his voice: "Who among you knows the locality? What village is
near?"
From twenty mouths the answer came at once: "It is Frugéres. The place
is close at hand. The steeple is the highest for miles around."
Even as these men spoke, their voices were in their turn silenced or
drowned by still more numerous shouts from others in the cavalcade.
"See, see!" those other voices yelled. "There is a fire--a church that
burns. Behold!"
"My God!" Martin heard Baville whisper to himself, though not so low
but that the words were distinguishable. "The fanatics have attacked
another priest, another church. This is no riot, but a rebellion."
Then he turned at once to de Peyre and said hurriedly but
authoritatively:
"Order all forward. They are there. We may be in time to save some.
Also to trap these mountain wolves. Forward, I say! Give the word of
command."
From de Peyre that word went forth, harsh and raucous as bellowed from
the lips of the rough soldier who had fought at Senef and Ensisheim
and had himself taken orders from Turenne and Condé. A moment later
every man who was mounted was spurring toward the thin streak of flame
that rose in the night air half a mile ahead, while the _milice_
followed on foot as fast as they were able.
"Pray God, no more horrors are being perpetrated," Buscarlet muttered
as he rode by Martin's side down the dusty road. Then murmured: "God
forgive them. God forgive them. They are mad."
"_He_ may forgive them," said Baville, who had caught his words, and
paraphrasing unconsciously as he spoke the words of one by whose side
he would have been accounted obscure and humble. "He may. I never
will. Oh, that Julien arrives ere long! Then--then--then--they shall
know what it is to outrage Languedoc thus."
The flames grew more furious as all neared the tower whence they
issued. It was the tower of the church at Frugéres; behind those
flames rose the thick white smoke from the burning material below.
Also great pieces of the copings were falling from the summit, and
sometimes a pinnacle or gargoyle fell too. And once as they drew near
there came a smothered clang, followed a moment later by a deep
sonorous clash, and those approaching rapidly knew that the great bell
had fallen from its beam, probably by now burned through, and had been
hurled far down below.
Upon the air as this happened there rose a psalm, a hymn of praise,
telling how the false priests of Baal had been consumed by the flames
of God's wrath in ages long since past, also the shouts and cries of
many voices. Yet none of those shouts were derisive, none scornful or
contemptuous. Instead, the shouts and cries of avengers who testified
to justice being done on sinners; who approved of the justice, yet saw
no reason for adding rejoicing to that approval.
"See," cried Baville, "they are there. Behold! They move below the
tower. We have them. De Peyre, give the order to charge. At them,
among them, spare none."
The belief in witchcraft was not yet dead in the world. People still
believed in sorcery and enchantment. What wonder, then, that the
dragoons thought there was some necromancy in the fact that, as they
tore down the dusty road, their blades gleaming in the light cast by
the flames, all against whom they rode vanished suddenly? Were there
one moment, gone the next. It seemed incredible. Half a hundred men
had been before them when they were five minutes' distance off; now
that they had reached the burning church, not a living soul was to be
seen. Truly it savoured of the miraculous. Yet, ere many months had
passed--indeed, but a few weeks--these soldiers, and others too who
were soon to join them, learned that no foe against whom they had ever
been opposed possessed so thoroughly the art of sudden disappearance
as did these fanatics, known later as the Camisards. For, trained in
their mountain homes to every physical feat--to leaping great chasms,
climbing dizzy heights unaided by aught but their strong and agile
feet and hands, descending giddy precipices as easily as their own
goats--they could disappear, disperse, as quickly and as thoroughly as
the snow wreath under the spring sun. Could lure on bodies of their
enemies to sports fraught with danger to all but themselves, into
quagmires and morasses, lonely mountain passes and fatal hilltops,
then themselves vanish and be no more seen.
It was so now upon this second night of their uprising.
As the dragoons charged down upon the paved, open _place_ outside the
church of Frugéres they charged upon empty space alone, encountered
nothing that offered resistance either to their onrush or their
gleaming blades. Nothing but the dead body of a man, a priest, lying
on those stones beneath the tower, the head broken in, the limbs
twisted and contorted.
"_Grand Dieu!_ what are we dealing with?" exclaimed the Lieutenant
General, wiping the sweat from his face as his men pulled up around
him, while some rushed into the church on foot, their long swords in
their hands, ready to be thrust through any breast that they
encountered, and others to the presbytery, thinking the _attroupés_
might be hiding there. "With human beings or devils?"
"Nay," said Baville, "with the children of the desert and the
mountains. Yet also the children of the devil. They escape but for a
time, however. Even these jugglers can not disappear when they are
surrounded. And," he added, striking one white-gloved hand into the
palm of another, "they shall be surrounded by such a fast-closing
circle that ere long not one shall escape. I swear it here before this
murdered man."
Easy to swear such an oath. More difficult to keep it. As, at last,
Baville found.
"Who is he?" Martin asked. Then added in a whisper to Buscarlet: "This
is murder, not justice. Cruelty, not retribution. See, he is an old
man."
"You are right, sir," Baville replied, whose ears nothing ever
escaped. "Yet be sure their time will come." Then, looking down at the
dead priest, he also asked, "Who is he?"
"It is the reverend curé," one of the dragoons said, regarding the old
man and wiping from his face at the same time the beads of
perspiration, even as his leader had done a moment before. "I know him
well; am of the next parish. He has thrown himself from the tower. As
well have staid for the flames as perished thus, broken all to
pieces."
All gazed down also as the man uttered these words, and as they did
so, none speaking, they recognised that they were face to face with an
awakened fury, with a vengeance that had slumbered but which now awoke
even as the baited lion awakes and turns at last to rend its foes.
For more than sixteen years the _affectés_, the New Religionists, the
Heretics, had bowed their heads beneath the yoke of him whom they
called the Scourge of God, as well as of the priests and the De
Maintenon, the woman whom Louvois and La Chaise had once used as an
instrument to work on her lover's intolerance, but who, since she had
become that lover's wife, had herself carried on the system. Born a
Protestant, she had seen that the king's mind became more sunken in
superstition as he grew near his end, and that, to keep that mind
under her subjection, the surest way was to persecute those whom she
had deserted and whom she hated. Therefore she revelled in their
suppression, therefore she boasted to her sister bigot, the Princesse
des Ursins, that in twenty years, if Louis' life was spared, there
would be no more Huguenots in France.
Meanwhile her orders were carried out strenuously wherever Protestants
harboured, especially so in the Midi. "_Saccagez ces chiens des
Huguenots, saccagez les, c'est la volonté du roi_," her minister,
Louvois, wrote. "Drive out _ce monstre de l'hérésie, ces chaires de
pestilence, ces synagogues de Satan_," exclaimed the priest. And it
was done.
Swiftly to all the jails in the warm south, to the galleys waiting at
Marseilles for their victims, to the lamp-posts on the town and
village bridges, to the fuel in the market places, to the axe, the
wheel and the rope, the Protestants were hurried.
Also the dragonnades began. The dragoons, _les cravats_, were
quartered in houses, sometimes in Protestant churches. Wives and
daughters were so treated that, to hide the bitterness of their shame
and to escape the horror of ever meeting their father's or brother's
glances again, they took their own lives. They need not have feared
those glances, for, the jails being soon full to overflowing, hundreds
of male Protestants were huddled off in crazy brigs and tartans and
snows to the Mississippi and New France generally, where, if they were
not drowned on the way, they mostly perished from the effects of the
climate or by the hands of the Natchez.
For sixteen years it had gone on. By the end of that time the
Protestant churches were all closed and the Protestant ministers
forbidden to perform their services under pain of death; scores,
indeed, had been executed for doing to, while still scores more, at
the risk of death, performed those services and held Divine worship in
the mountains and woods. Also none were allowed to quit the land who
could be prevented from doing so, though a hundred thousand did manage
to escape to other countries, high-born women and girls being
disguised in most cases as muleteer's boys; high-born men of the
oldest blood in France--such men as Ruvigny and Duquesne--driving pigs
and asses toward the frontier, or disguised as pilgrim monks, or
pushing handcarts full of fruit and vegetables or Nîmes serges, which
they pretended they were desirous of selling. But these were people of
wealth, people who left behind them in their flight the châteaux in
which countless generations of their race had been born, left also
their rich furniture and equipages and costly plate and silks and
satins, and the woods and forests and vineyards to which they had been
born the heirs and to the enjoyment of which they had looked forward
for the rest of their lives. Or they were skilled mechanics and
artisans who could gain a livelihood wherever they found themselves.