The Scourge of God: A Romance of Religious Persecution
But for the poorer sort there was no flight possible; if they left
France they must die of hunger in other lands. They had no money,
could speak no tongue but their own, often knew no trade by which they
could earn their bread; understood nothing beyond the breeding of
cattle and the arts of husbandry. Yet they, too, fled from
persecution, though in a different manner. High up in the gloomy and,
to strangers, inaccessible plateaux of the Cévennes--a region of
sterile mountains on which for six months in the year the snow
sometimes falls unceasingly, while for the other six the heat is
almost the heat of the tropics--they sought a refuge. Here in this
mountainous region, which covers an extent of one hundred and twenty
miles, they found a home, here worshipped God in their own fashion and
unmolested, which was all they asked, yet saw with horror, when
disguised they ventured down into the plains, the misery that was
still overwhelming those of their own faith. Also they knew that plans
were being formed for their extermination; that from Paris was coming
an army under Julien, a bloodthirsty soldier who had once been a
Protestant like themselves, but who was now a convert possessing all
the tigerish fury of the convert against those whom he had deserted;
knew that Du Chaila was the most brutal of all priests as Baville was
the most cruel of all rulers. No wonder that they groaned over the
ferocities inflicted on any of their number who were caught below in
the plains. The capture of the girl Fleurette and of the guide Masip
ignited the flame of revenge which had long been smouldering. But even
then, when they descended to Montvert, it was more with the desire of
rescuing the victims than aught else. In their hearts there had been
at first no intention of murdering either the abbé or the curé of
Frugéres. Moreover, it was not against Louis that they rebelled but
against his Church and the priests of that Church.
But Du Chaila had caused the dragoons to fire on them, and the first
shot from the soldiers' musketoons had roused their passion; also it
brought about a conflict of horrible cruelty and bloodshed which the
passage of years alone extinguished. For now that war of retaliation
had commenced which two of Louis' field marshals were successively
unable to quench, and which a third only succeeded in doing, more by
diplomacy and tolerance than by steel or ball.
* * * * * * *
"What has he on his breast?" asked Baville, leaning over the dead
priest and pointing to something white that gleamed in the light cast
by the flames from the burning church.
"A scrap of paper, Monsieur l'Intendant," the dragoon who had taken
the most prominent part among his fellows replied, "with writing upon
it. It is pinned to his vest."
"Give it to me."
Then he read aloud, not heeding, apparently, whether either Buscarlet
or Martin heard the words:
"This paper replaces another containing the names of a score of men to
be denounced to the monster, Baville. The man has gone before his God.
Baville will follow."
"Will he?" the Intendant said to himself in a low, clear voice,
which all heard. "Will he? Doubtless some day, but not now. For a
surety not before these wolves have been tracked to their caves and
exterminated--as they shall be--as they shall be."
And all watching him in the lurid light cast from the burning tower,
saw that the white-gloved hands were opened and clenched again twice,
as though he had the throats of those wolves he spoke of within them.
CHAPTER XI.
"CONSORTING WITH HERETICS."
It was midnight when all rode into Alais, and the iron shoes of the
horses clattering on the cobble-stones of the street woke from their
beds the few who were asleep.
There were, indeed, not many who slept that night at this hour, since
all knew that the fanatics, as they were invariably termed by those of
the vicinity who were not of the Protestant religion, had descended
from the mountains upon Montvert and had slain the abbé. Also all knew
that, two hours before sunset, the dreaded Baville had gone forth
escorted by de Peyre and his cavalry as well as by the _milice_ of the
province--gone forth to inflict a terrible vengeance on the murderers.
Had they done so? they asked each other feverishly now as the dragoons
rode in, the rattle of hoofs and scabbards and bridle chains deadening
the whispers they addressed to each other. Had they done so?
Perhaps it was not strange that here, in this little town nestling in
its rich valleys, the slopes of whose hills were covered with
cornfields and vineyards and chestnut woods, the beauty of which was
so extreme that in the language of the Cévenoles it was termed the
_Hort Dieu_, or, in purer French, _Le Jardin de Dieu_, all should have
whispered their imaginings, since it was in Alais particularly that
religious opinion was much divided, the Reformed faith numbering
nearly as many adherents as the Romish. Whispered their imaginings
because each feared the hostile ears to which their uttered thoughts
and ideas might penetrate, none knowing as yet which side was to
prevail in the great struggle. For if Baville had destroyed the
Camisards, retribution would be swift and strong on all who were
Huguenots; if, on the contrary, he had failed, those of the older
faith might expect to find themselves victims of an awful retaliation
before another night had come.
At first none could discover aught. The dragoons with their leaders
and the two men--one old, the other young, who seemed like
prisoners--swept onward to the Hôtel de Ville. Soon the streets became
quiet again and all within the houses sought their beds, though,
perhaps, with not much hope of obtaining any rest.
If, however, they did so hope, they were doomed to disappointment.
For scarce had the clatter of the men led by de Peyre died on their
ears, scarce had the horses' hoofs ceased to ring down the streets,
than another hubbub arose. More trampling of cavalry and the ringing
of iron shoes upon the cobble-paved road was heard, more jangling of
accoutrements and more shouts and calls; also the blare of trumpets
and the deep, heavy roll of artillery over the stony streets. Whereon
many who had but just laid down upon their beds sprang up again and,
huddling on their garments, ran to their windows and doors, the
Protestants asking if this were some fresh force arriving to add to
their persecutions, the Catholics wondering if the fanatics had
descended from the mountains again and were besieging the town? Yet
soon the latter were assured that such could not be the case, while,
to counterbalance the other's feeling of safety, the Protestants
trembled more and more, not knowing what fresh horrors were preparing
for them, for all saw at a glance these were no mountaineers clad in
their white sheepskins, nor Camisards, but, instead, regular troops
well equipped and armed and uniformed. Also all knew that the
_attroupés_ had no artillery or horses. With different feelings, each
watched, therefore, this new arrival of soldiers and saw go by the
fierce dragoons of Joyeuse, the fusileers of Montluçon, the regiments
of Saultz and Bearne, and one of light-horse from the far north--the
chevaux-légers of Bapaume; saw, too, the artillery organized by
St.-Hilaire, now dead.
"God help us!" the Protestants said, trembling behind their blinds,
"God help us! was this needed too?" while one old man, crouching
behind the fountain in the market place, whispered to another, "Those
great guns! those great guns! See! Are they to blow our houses down
above our heads?"
"Tush!" exclaimed a tall man standing by their side, a fellow bronzed
and black from the winds of many wintry storms as well as from the
scorching rays of the southern sun. "Tush! they are for the children
of God, up there," and he turned a dark gleaming eye toward the dusky
summits above the little town, over which by now there was stealing a
cold gray that told of the coming of the summer morning. "Fear not for
yourself, or them up there. Baville's roads are not yet made and never
will be. Let us see that artillery mount into the Cévennes," and he
laughed scornfully, some might have deemed cruelly.
Shrinking away from his great form, half in fear, half with dawning
intelligence, the old man said: "You speak thus, as though you were of
the persecuted--yet--yet--you wear the garments of--of--the valleys,
the clothes of townsmen."
But the swarthy stranger only muttered:
"Peace, old man, and be silent. Has not the quarry worn the garb of
the hunter before now?" Then he moved away and was lost in the crowd
which had gathered afresh.
Ahead of all--of artillery, dragoons, chevaux-légers--there rode one
who, but for the richness of his apparel his scarlet coat glistening
with stars and traversed by a great ribbon, his hat laced and cockaded
with galloon until none of the felt was visible, his gold-hilted and
long quilloned sword, might, judging from his fierce looks, himself
have been a refugee of the mountain plateaux and deserts above. A man
with a great face in which were set fierce rolling eyes, a man from
whose heavily moustached mouth there issued oaths whenever he opened
it.
This was Julien, one of Louis' field marshals, who, because of his
having left the Protestant faith to embrace that of the king, was
spoken of in all the lands where the Protestants sheltered themselves
as "Julien the Apostate." Also he was spoken of by them with hatred
and loathing since once no better soldier of Protestantism had ever
existed or, under William of Orange, had done better service. But
William, the great champion of Protestantism, was dead now, and
Julien, whose love for wealth was unquenchable, had learned that Roman
Catholicism was the most paying game. Thus it was that he came this
night into his own part of the country, since he was of old family in
the town of Orange itself, to lay waste and to slaughter all who held
the faith which he himself had once held. He was a true pervert!
With an oath he turned to the aide-de-camp who rode behind him and
asked where this accursed Baville was, bidding him ride forward at
once and see what preparations had been made for the reception of his
forces. Bade him also ask if every Protestant house had been put under
orders to accommodate them.
"For," he said to himself, "they must pay for their contumacy _fasse
Dieu!_ We should have good feeding here. The vagabonds are rich in all
good things in this town. We must have our share."
* * * * * * *
The next day dawned bright and fair with still no speck in the blue
sky toward which the great mountains lifted their heads, and with the
bright sun over all--over vineyards full of their ripening grapes,
over meadows in which the cattle stood under the shadows of the
chestnut trees that dotted them at intervals--lighting up, too, the
cool dark woods that clothed the slopes. Also it peered into old and
dusty houses, shining in on the ancient furniture and vessels that
generation after generation had prized and polished regularly and been
proud of.
It shone, too, into another spot--the principal chamber of the Hôtel
de Ville, where on this bright July morning were assembled all the
representatives of law and order in the province, Baville at their
head.
He was seated now in the presidential chair of this apartment, which
served as the debating room for all things connected with the
municipal affairs of the town; on either side of him sat his
colleagues, the field marshal being on his left hand, the bishop of
the diocese, which was a newly created one, on his right. Also the
mayor was there and de Peyre, several Catholic priests, and half a