The Scourge of God: A Romance of Religious Persecution
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;