CHAPTER VII.
LA CROISSETTE.
How chill and painful was my awaking! The soles of my feet were raw with so much walking after they were blistered, and the inflammation irritated my whole frame, which was likewise stiffened with so much beating. When I opened my eyes, I saw the anxious face of my dear mother, as she examined my wounds, and prepared with light hand to dress them. Nor would anybody have guessed she herself was terribly burnt, had not one of the children, inadvertently running against her, caused a sudden wince, but without any audible expression of pain. The thought of what she was enduring with such stoicism, or rather, let me say, with such Christianity, enabled me, better than any stimulant would have done, to endure without murmuring; and she said to me, with strong approval in her kind eyes, "Your wounds tell me, my poor boy, how much you have to bear; therefore there is no need to cry out. Our light affliction which is but for a moment, worketh for us a far more exceeding and eternal weight of glory."
"Yes, that is true indeed," said my father, "and things might have gone much worse with us."
"Can you say that, my father," said I, "when you have lost all?"
"I have not lost all," replied he. "Before the factory was attacked, I had time to disperse the workmen, dispatch a hasty line to an English correspondent, and secrete certain bills of exchange; so that if we can but find our way to England we shall, indeed, have to begin life again, but with God's blessing, shall not fare badly. And with that blessing, my son, we shall not fare badly even here."
"No, indeed, father." And as I spoke I looked towards where the lamp-light (for we had no other) fell on the bending head of Madeleine, as she talked in a low voice to the children, and kept them amused. Not a glimpse of the sun's light could penetrate our refuge, and thus it always seemed night with us when, in fact, it was bright day. Doubtless this was tedious to all; but no one, even the children, so much as murmured at it, except Gabrielle, who was inexpressibly wearied, and now and then gave a long yawn, which set others yawning, and procured her a good-humored rebuke.
"How long is this to last?" said she.
"Till the dragoons find us out, perhaps," said my father, gravely; which silenced her for a little while.
"Our provisions will not last long," said she presently.
"Then we must procure more," said my mother. "We have enough for the present."
"Yes, we have cheese and wine and flour; but what good is flour unless it is cooked?"
"Do not make mountains of molehills, Gabrielle," said Madeleine, aside; "it is such a bad example for the children."
"Well, but they are not molehills," returned Gabrielle, in rather a lower tone, which, however, we could hear well enough. "I suppose we cannot starve."
"Has your endurance so soon ceased, my dear girl?" said my father. "Think of the believers of old. They had trials of cruel mockings and scourgings, yea, moreover, of bonds and imprisonment. They were stoned; they were sawn asunder, were tempted, were slain with the sword; they wandered about in sheepskins and goatskins, being destitute, afflicted, tormented (of whom the world was not worthy); they wandered in deserts and in mountains, and in dens and caves of the earth. And yet none of these, though they obtained a good report in God's own word for their faith, had received the explicit promises through Christ, God having provided those better things for us; wherefore we surely should be ashamed to show less constancy than they did."
"Oh, of course," said Gabrielle.
"Think of what Jacques is bearing without a murmur," said Madeleine. "I'm sure he sets an example to us all."
"And as to minding what we eat," said little Charles, "I'm sure I don't mind it a bit. Do I, mamma?"
"Oh, if you are all going to be against me, I shall say no more," said Gabrielle.
"That's right," said my mother. "Put a brave heart on it, my dear; I know you have it in you."
Gabrielle bit her lip, but took out a comb, and began to arrange little Louison's hair. "Now," she whispered, "I'll make you as smart as the young lady we saw with Madame de Laccassagne;" and in this way she amused herself and the child, talking nonsense with her, and inventing imaginary scenes and people, all in a hushed voice, that my father might not hear.
Suddenly, some one at the entrance of our dungeon wishing us "Bon jour," made us start violently and look towards him in alarm.
"You need not shrink from me," said La Croissette, advancing among us when he had looked around. "I may not be as good as yourselves, or I may be—that's neither here nor there. I'm not quite a bad fellow, I believe, though at times I am driven to keep indifferent company. Still, I am not very fond of those I'm among at present, so I thought I'd look in on you. Your servant, sir," to my father. "A votre service, madame," very politely to my mother. "You were not here last night, when your son and that young lady rather unexpectedly looked in on us. To speak the truth, there are reasons why some of us don't relish being looked in on unexpectedly."
"Quite natural," said my father; "no more do we."
"Ah, but you need not be afraid of me," said La Croissette, "I'm no traitor, I! It might be rash, though, to say as much of some of my companions, and therefore I advise you not to be too familiar with them."
"My good friend, we have not the least intention of being so."
"Age is wary, and youth is full of trust," said La Croissette. "Not knowing that you, respected sir, and you, madame, were here to look after the younger persons, I ventured to do so myself, to bid them beware of their neighbors."
"That was very friendly, and I thank you heartily for it," said my father.
"Shall you remain here long?" said La Croissette.
"That depends entirely on circumstances."
"Doubtless you are hiding from the dragoons."
"Is it necessary to tell you?"
"Why, no; but you might do so without fear. I have no love for them myself, but nothing to fear; I am certainly not a Huguenot; but neither would I betray one. Come, I see you would rather I went away. I am going into town. There is nothing I can do for you, then?"
"Nothing; we thank you very much."
When he was gone, Gabrielle exclaimed, "Now that is what I call an opportunity wasted."
"We must beware, my child, who we trust," said my mother.
"Of course; but he was so evidently a harmless, good sort of man."
"We had no occasion to trouble him."
Gabrielle plainly thought there was a good deal of occasion. Indeed, had she known she was actually doomed to spend a few days in the vaults of Les Arènes, I am persuaded she would have fitted them up with upholstery and eatables, even to pickles and preserves. Meanwhile Madeleine was beguiling the time to the children by setting them easy sums on the wall, scratched with a nail, and drawing pictures for them with the same implement, accompanied with stories, as thus:—"Once on a time there was a poor Christian captive in this very dungeon—here he is (drawing his picture)—sentenced to be thrown to the lions (picture). Once he had been a little boy like this (picture), fond of playing with other little boys (picture), and ready to carry his mother's pitcher to the well (picture), or sweep her floor (picture), or make himself useful to her in any way whatever. One day,"—and so forth. Gabrielle's fancy was tickled with this, and when Madeleine desisted she continued it, though now and then with a furtive yawn. Meanwhile my father was pondering over the papers he had about him, and sitting immersed in thought, or now and then saying a little to my mother. By-and-by he ventured out a little without quitting the precincts of the amphitheatre, and returned, saying several tramps were loitering about, whose attention it would not be prudent to attract. The day, which seemed the longest I ever knew, at length drew to a close, which we only learnt by my father's watch, for we were out of hearing of the town clocks. He said it would make time pass less heavily if we divided it methodically, and had our set hours for meals, rest, prayer, and mutual improvement, whether by exhortation, discussion, or general discourse, We followed his lead as well as we could, but our thoughts were chiefly with the outer world.
Just after the women and children had retired for the night to a little inner dungeon, La Croissette once more presented himself uninvited.
"I thought, messieurs, you might like to hear the news of the day," said he.
"Most certainly," said my father. "Pray be seated. I wish I had a better seat to offer you. What is stirring?"
"The news, then, is, that Nismes is being converted as fast as possible," said La Croissette. "No persuader, sirs, like fire and sword. Dragoons are quartered on every Protestant. They are destroying whatever they cannot make booty of. Some are littering their fine black horses with bales of broadcloth, silk, and cotton; others with fine Holland cloths. The common people are being driven to church at the sword's point, and conforming by shoals. The gentry give more trouble, but end by coming round."
"Some may—some weak-hearted persons," said my father, reluctantly.
"Well, they may be weak-hearted; I'm sure I should be, in their place," said La Croissette. "In fact, what is it?—a mere form. They just slur over a few words—cross themselves—kiss a relic, or some little matter of that sort. No more is required; the bishop lets them off easy."
"Will the Lord let them off easy?" said my father. "Christianity admits of no such temporizing. The early Christians might have saved their lives by burning a handful of incense before the Roman Emperor's statue; but they did not hold it a mere form. And the Romanists admit in principle what they dissent from in practice; for they almost deify those early martyrs for their constancy to the truth, and yet would martyr us for doing the very same thing."
"Well, I don't mean them to martyr me," said La Croissette, "I've an elastic creed, I!—it stretches or collapses like an easy stocking."
"Beware, beware, my friend, of fancying a creed like that of any worth at all."
"Sir, we all have our weak points and our strong ones. I'm no polemic, I!—I prefer meddling with things that will not bring me into trouble. There was a factory burnt down last night—"
"Ah!" groaned my father.
"Some say both the partners were burnt; others that one of them is at a distance. Some think the factory was set on fire on purpose; others that it was an accident. Nothing remains of it but the outer walls and a smoking heap of ruins."
My father covered his face with his hand.
"Then, again," pursued La Croissette, "that worthy old Monsieur Laccassagne, unable to stand the deprivation of sleep any longer, has conformed—"
"Has he, though!" cried my father, with a start. "Oh, how sad a fall!"
"Outwardly, only outwardly," said La Croissette. "The poor old gentleman was driven almost out of his senses by that deafening drumming. 'You shall have rest now,' said the bishop. 'Alas!' replied he, 'I look for no rest on this side heaven; and may God grant that its doors may not be closed against me by this act.'"
"Poor old man! poor Monsieur Laccassagne!" ejaculated my father. "Well might he say so."
"Yes, but what reasonable person can suppose the doors of heaven will be closed against him by it?" said La Croissette. "The Lord is a God of mercy—"
"But will by no means clear the guilty," said my father.
"And He looketh not to the outward appearance, but to the heart," said La Croissette.
"That expression applies to the personal, bodily appearance, which none of us can help," said my father, "not to the pretence of believing one thing, when we believe, its opposite. I mourn over the backsliding of my old friend. Better had it been to suffer affliction for a season.
"So the virtuous lady his wife thought," said La Croissette. "She escaped in the disguise of a servant, and is now wandering in the open fields."
"Ah, what sorrow! May the good Lord support her under it!"
"Ay, and the many other women who are in similar case. Numbers of them are at this instant cowering in the cold and darkness in ditches and under hedges."
"Monsieur Laccassagne might well say he could hope for no rest on this side heaven," said my father, bitterly. "How can he rest, knowing that his excellent wife, accustomed to every comfort, is now an outcast for her faith—the faith which he has denied?"
"Well, I wish I could have brought you more cheerful news," said La Croissette, rising. "In truth, you need it, in this dismal hole, to keep up your spirits. Tell me, now, good sir, how long do you expect to be able, you and yours, to hold out?"
"Sufficient to the day is the evil thereof," said my father. "Thanks be to God, He does not require us to dwell on what may be in store for our chastening. He says explicitly, 'Take no thought for the morrow—the morrow shall take thought for the things of itself.' Words how kind and how wise!"
This seemed to strike La Croissette a good deal. He remained in thought a few minutes, and then said, "Well, it is time I should take my leave. I respect you very much." Then, resuming his bantering tone, "Since you are so willing to hazard the disturbance which poor old Monsieur Laccassagne found it so hard to bear, I advise you to sleep day and night while you are here, and lay in a good stock of repose against the time when you will be deprived of it."
Stepping back again, just as he seemed going, he said, "You fancy yourselves very safe here; and, indeed, the dragoons unless with a guide to you, might possibly take some time to find you out; but depend on it, Les Arènes will be well searched some day—perhaps very soon; it is too well known as having been an old hiding-place. Every corner—this among the rest—is known to outcasts, many of them of bad reputation, who, for a morsel of bread, would give up St. Paul or St. Peter. All are not so, however, and those I am now among have a kind of the honor which exists among thieves. Do not depend too much on it, however."
And with this very unsatisfactory speech, he left us. My father, after brooding on what he had said for some time, knelt down, and was long in prayer: then he murmured, "I will both lay me down in peace and sleep: for thou, Lord, only makest me dwell in safety." And I knew soon, by his breathing, that he had indeed found rest in sleep. For me, I could not close my eyes: the text that dwelt in my mind was, "My soul is among lions." I thought of Madame Laccassagne and the other poor women wandering in the fields, and pictured a thousand distressing circumstances. Our solitary oil-lamp was beginning to languish for want of trimming, and I thought, "What if it should leave us in darkness altogether, and we should never know when it is day?" and dwelt on the Egyptians in the plague of darkness, when none of them rose from his place for three days. I was so feverish that it seemed to me a darkness like that would madden me—I must dash my head against the wall, or do something desperate; and I thought of Jonah in the whale's belly, when the waters compassed him round about, and his soul fainted in that hideous darkness; and again it was "three days." Then I thought, "Why three days?" Was it because the Son of Man was three days in the heart of the earth? And shall we remain here in this subterranean darkness three days?
Just as the lamp seemed going out my loved mother stole out of the inner dungeon, and trimmed it; then noiselessly stole to my side, and, seeing my eyes open, smiled on me and kissed me, and then lay down beside my father. Oh, the peace, the security of her presence! I sank into dreamless sleep.
I was awakened by the most horrid noise I ever heard in my life. It seemed like the roar of a lion close to my ear, and I started up in wild affright, fancying myself a Christian prisoner about to be thrown to the wild beasts. All around was dark as pitch—the lamp had gone out! The frightful bellowing continued without intermission; and, besides, there were sobs and screams, brutal laughter and cursing. Dreadful moment! Presently a spark of light momentarily illumined our cell, and showed the anxious face of my mother, as she re-kindled the lamp, surrounded by the terrified children and girls, roused from their sleep by the hideous uproar.
"Oh, what is it?—what is it?" cried I. My mother's lips moved, but she could not make herself heard. Having succeeded in lighting the lamp, she came close to me, and said—
"They seem to have put one of the bulls of La Camargue into the adjoining den for the next bull-baiting, and to have lashed it to frenzy with their goads. The noise is terrific, but I do not suppose the animal can break loose."
La Croissette now appeared among us, suffocating with laughter. "Are you frightened out of your lives?" said he. "'Tis nothing."
"Nay, sir," said my mother, "'tis something, I think, to be raised up in the middle of the night by such a dreadful noise."
"Night? 'tis broad daylight! No wonder you were frightened. I can hardly hear myself speak; but I felt impelled to come and see how you took it. They have put an enormous bull in the adjoining den; and if you don't like his company, you will have to change your quarters, which I advise you to do at any rate; for the Basques who have him in charge are brutal fellows, whose jargon I don't understand. Ten to one they will discover you before the day's out; and then what will you do?"
"Truly, our case is hard," said my mother, looking wistfully at my father.
"It is so, my dear wife," replied he; "and I do not see my way clearly. Let us ask God to make it a little clearer to us."
La Croissette looked amazed when he saw the whole family kneel down, and made a movement to go, but paused at the entrance and looked back on us. Though the bellowing still continued, it was neither so loud nor so frequent; but still only snatches of my father's voice could be heard. But his very look and attitude was a prayer; and there were the two sweet sisters, with their clasped hands and bent heads, and the little ones crowded about my mother. Now and then such broken sentences were heard as—"Lord, thou hast been our refuge from one generation to another—Thou hast set our iniquities before thee, our secret sins in the light of thy countenance—The dead bodies of thy servants have they given to be meat unto the fowls of the air, and the flesh of thy saints to the beasts of the land—We are become an open shame to our enemies, and a very scorn to them that hate us. Return, O Lord! how long? and let it repent thee concerning thy servants—Oh, satisfy us with thy mercy, and that soon; so will we rejoice, and give thanks to thee all the days of our life—Make thy way plain before us, O Lord, because of our enemies."
I could not help furtively watching the workings of La Croissette's face as he listened to these words of the Psalmist, so appropriate and pathetic. He started as if shot when touched by some one behind; and the next instant M. Bourdinave stood among us.
CHAPTER VIII.
PERSECUTED, YET NOT FORSAKEN.
"My father!" exclaimed the girls, and flew into his arms. The next instant the bellowing recommenced.
"What is that?" cried M. Bourdinave, starting.
"One of the bulls intended for baiting," said my father.
"Ah, what a vicinity to find you in?" said M. Bourdinave.
"Better, my dear friend, than the captives of old had in this very dungeon. And now, what news? Where have you been?"
"I'd better go; I'm not wanted." muttered La Croissette, heard only by me, and then retiring.
"I bring the worst of news," returned M. Bourdinave, sitting down. "The Edict of Nantes is revoked."
"Ah!" and a general cry broke from us.
"What signifies it," said my mother, bitterly, "when already its provisions have been set at nought? Are we any the better for it?"
"We may be yet worse for losing it," said M. Bourdinave. "Every Reformed meeting-house in France is to be demolished; no private assemblages for devotional purposes are to be allowed on any pretext whatever. All Huguenot schools are to be suppressed; all children born of Huguenot parents to be baptized and educated as Catholics; all non-conforming ministers to quit the country within fifteen days, on pain of the galleys."
"Let us rise, my children," cried my father in great agitation, "and leave this country, which is no longer a mother to us, shaking the dust off our feet. Alas, what am I saying? Whither can we go?"
"To England," replied M. Bourdinave. "I have already taken measures for it."
"Heaven be praised!" cried we simultaneously.
"But it will be under circumstances of great hardship, difficulty, and danger."
"Never mind; we willingly encounter them. Yes, yes," said one after another.
"Have you the courage, my daughters?" looking earnestly at them.
Madeleine threw herself into his arms.
"I knew what your answer would be," said he, fondly kissing her; "but my little Gabrielle—"
"Oh, fear me not, father," cried Gabrielle, hastily. "Anything to get out of this horrid place. I believe I have seemed too impatient of it to those around me, but that was because inaction is always so trying to me."
"My love, you may yet be exposed to it. I have known one of our brethren put into a chest, with very few air-holes, and lowered into the hold of a merchant-vessel, with considerable roughness, where he was left many hours before he could be released."
Gabrielle changed color. "Never mind," said she, in a low voice, and pressing her father's hand. "What man has done man may do, though I am but a woman who say it."
"That's my brave girl!" fondly kissing her. "Well, my friends, if we can but get to Bordeaux, we shall escape; that is provided for. It was this which kept me from you so long. And what a return has been mine! I got no answers from you to my letters; I heard the persecution here was raging with fury; I came to snatch you from it, and found my home deserted, the factory burnt, the workmen scattered, no tidings of you to be found. At length I got news of you from one of the men, who told me of your retreat, and that he, under cover of night, brought you bread. We planned how to remove you hence to-night, but it must be in detachments. At a place agreed on there will be a small cart that will convey the children and perhaps their mother."
"I prefer walking," interposed my mother. "Jacques is unable to do so."
"Impossible! I am sure you have not the strength for it," said we all.
"Never fear," said she, stoutly.
"No, no; it must not be," said I.
"And you, my son?"
"I will undertake for him," said La Croissette, who, it now appeared, had been listening behind the doorway all this time.
"Who are you, my man?" said M. Bourdinave, in surprise and some distrust.
"An honest fellow, though I say it that shouldn't," was his answer. "I am one of those who deal in deeds more than words. I cannot patter Ave Marias with a Catholic, nor sing interminable psalms like a Huguenot, but neither can I endure the ways the Catholics are taking to compel the Huguenots to submission. I take my own way, d'ye see, and am fettered by nobody. No one would molest La Croissette the needle-seller, not even a dragoon. And I have learnt to esteem you all; I admire the young ladies, and respect the old lady and gentleman. Therefore, there's my hand; you may take it or not. 'Tis not over soft; but there's no blood on it, and it never took a bribe. Let those say so who can. And what I say next is this: Dr. Jameray has fallen sick, and I've undertaken to drive his little wagon, with the sign of the bleeding tooth, from hence to Montauban. As far as that I'll give my young friend here a cast, and he may thence easily take boat down the Garonne to Bordeaux. At least, if he cannot of himself, I'll manage it for him."
How grateful we were to the worthy La Croissette! Not one of us distrusted him in the least; at any rate, if M. Bourdinave did so at first, he was soon reassured by us, and took the honest fellow heartily by the hand. A good deal more was now said than I have space to recount or memory to recall. Indeed, my head was in a confused state, and I was conscious of little but of the tender pressure of dear Madeleine's hand, from whom I must so soon part.
We were to start as soon as night afforded us its friendly cover; but some hours of daylight remained. My father and M. Bourdinave had many business affairs to discuss, and Madeleine kept the children quiet, that they might not interrupt them. I never thought Gabrielle so pretty as now that she had spoken with resolution, and seemed strengthening herself to keep up to it. Nevertheless, we have no real strength of our own; it all comes from God; but He gives it to all who ask it faithfully. Madeleine whispered to me, "Let us pray that strength for her duty may be given her." I nodded and smiled.
Meanwhile my mother went out to the appointed place where, it seems, Raoul had daily placed a loaf. We, who were not in the secret, had much wondered where our bread came from, and how it lasted out. This time she returned with a large sausage as well; so we ate our meal with gladness and thankfulness of heart, La Croissette insisting on passing round his bottle, which, somehow, he always kept well filled. And had this man had a mind to betray us, how easily he might have done so! He overheard our plans, might have drugged our wine, and stretched us all powerless; might have told his comrades to make sport of us, and kept out of sight himself; or might openly have led the dragoons to our hiding-place with torches and weapons. Our blessed Lord had more reason, humanly speaking, to trust Judas, than we to trust La Croissette; but you see this man was honest; you could not have tempted him to sell us for thirty pieces of silver.
When he went forth, though, after supper, my mind misgave me for a while, thinking, "What if he be gone to betray us?" I wronged his worthy heart. So many people are worse than we think them, that it is a comfort when some prove better than we think them. Worthy La Croissette! I have thy tall, meagre form and lantern jaws now before me. Many a showy professor might be bettered by having as true a heart.
When he was gone, my father said, "Let us join once more in family worship, and then get a little sleep before our night-journey begins."
I think he and M. Bourdinave and the children actually did sleep, but not my mother or the girls. I certainly did not. My mother dressed and bandaged my wounded feet for the last time. They were healing, but too tender for walking or standing without injury to the newly-formed skin. Then she sat beside me, with looks of love, and was presently joined by Madeleine. We knew so well what was passing in each other's minds, that we did not need to say much. Then my father awoke, with all his faculties about him, looked at his watch, and said it was time to start. M. Bourdinave went out, and after what seemed to our impatience rather a long time, returned, and said Raoul reported unusual disturbance in the city, but that now all was ready. We took leave of one another, agreed on places of rendezvous (if we were ever enabled to reach them), and had a valedictory prayer. Still they did not like to go and leave me without La Croissette. At length he appeared, and, addressing my father, said:
"You had better avoid the precincts of your famous temple, La Calade: it has been completely demolished, and crowds are yet hanging about their beloved place of worship, regardless of danger, but the military will presently disperse them."
"Ah, what desecration!" exclaimed my mother.
"Keep your regrets for the sufferings of living people, my good lady," said La Croissette. "Stones have no feeling, and are not prone to revenge insult. 'Tis said, walls have ears. The walls of La Calade have, at all events, a tongue; for on the summit of the ruins lies a stone with these words on it, 'Lo, this is the house of God; this is the gate of heaven!'"
Then addressing my father, he said. "The very fact of the public attention being drawn to this point makes other parts of the city comparatively deserted, and therefore favors your escape. Lose no time, I advise you, in availing yourselves of it."
We exchanged our last embraces in tears, and they went forth, he following them. I felt inexpressibly lonely and sad.
Just as I was beginning to get uneasy at his absence, and to think, "What if he should never come back?" he returned.
"They are safely off now," said he, "and little know what peril they have been in here. Another twelve hours, and they would all have been taken. Now, then, let us bestir ourselves, young man. They call you Jacques; but I shall call you Jean, after my younger brother."
Helped on by him, I hobbled along, though in pain. How chill, but how fresh and pleasant, felt the open air! It seemed the breath of life to me, and revived me like a potent medicine. There was a distant, sullen murmur in the city, but around us all was still. Above us were bright stars, but no moon.
At length we got among low dwellings, some of which had twinkling lights. We entered a dark, narrow passage, smelling powerfully of fried fish and onions. Some one from above said cautiously, "Who goes there?"
"La Croissette."
"Who else?"
"My brother Jean."
"Advance, brothers La Croissette."
We ascended a mean staircase and entered a room where we found a man and woman standing beside a large basket.
"Now get you into this," said La Croissette to me, "and we will lower you from the window. Stay, I will go first; it will give you confidence."
Twisting his long frame into the basket, he clasped his arms round his knees, and the others began to raise him by well-secured pulleys. The woman grew quite red in the face with the exertion of getting him over the window-ledge, and I own I trembled for him.
"All is right, he is safely down," said she, at length, and helped to pull up the basket. "Now, young man; you're not afraid?"
"Oh no; only don't let me down too fast."
"That must depend on how heavy you are. We can't keep dangling you between sky and earth all night. Come; you are not nearly as heavy as your brother. Adieu, mon cher; bon voyage!"
"Adieu, madame; mille remerciments."
I thought of St. Paul in the basket, and the two Israelitish spies. La Croissette eased my descent a good deal, by steadying the basket, and helped me out of it to our mutual satisfaction. It was then swiftly drawn up, and taken in.
"Thank heaven, we are safe!" said I. "That was very cleverly managed."
"Do you suppose it the first time?" said La Croissette. "Far from it, I can tell you. Many things are done in Nismes that the authorities know nothing of, for all their vigilance. Now we are fairly outside the city, and, with ordinary good luck, shall perform our night-journey in safety."
"With God's blessing we may," said I.
"Make that proviso with all my heart," said La Croissette. "some trust in Providence and some in luck. I have nothing to say against either. Now get into the cart."
He led the horse a little out of the shadow as he spoke, and helped me inside the little house on wheels, where I found a mattress that proved a most acceptable rest; and then we drove slowly and quietly off, and gradually got among fields and hedges.
"How are you getting on?" said La Croissette, at length. "Do you mind the shaking?"
"Oh," said I, "I have so many things on my mind that I take no thought for the body."
"All the better; though some say that pain of the mind is the worst to bear of the two."
"I have little doubt of it," said I, "though each are bad enough. But all I meant was that my mind is preoccupied and anxious, and prevents my noticing any mere discomforts; for I cannot say I am miserable."
"Indeed I think you ought not to be, for you have had an escape from that troubled city that many would rejoice at."
"Tell me truly; do you think I have actually escaped?"
"What know I? You have escaped from the evils behind; you may not escape from the evils before. Yesterday was cloudy, to-morrow may be rainy, the day after may be fine; none of us knows. At least there is a weather-prophet at Arles whom some of the fools believe in; but he broke his leg a little while ago, and his spirit of prophecy did not enable him to foresee that, therefore I doubt his knowing about the weather."
"There have always been those who dealt in lying signs and wonders," said I, "from the days of Moses, when the magicians feigned to change their rods into serpents, which of course they could not do really."
"They were clever at sleight-of-hand, I suppose," said La Croissette. "So is Doctor Jameray. He can do many wonderful things. I can do some of them myself. You see, some of his conjuring tricks require a second person, who must not be known for his assistant; so that when he sets out on his tours through the provinces, I generally do the same, and contrive to cross his path, as if by accident. Then we play off on a new set of people the tricks we have played twenty times before in other places."
"Then needle-selling is only a blind?" said I.
"I turn a little money by it; the more, that I am careful always to sell the best needles and pins. Thus I have acquired a name—the housewives trust me; I have a character to support. And my character supports me."
"A good character always does so in the long run," said I.
"Well, I don't know what to say about that. You are too young to have any authority of weight. It must be your father's wisdom, and I am not sure it will stand the test."
"I feel sure of it," said I.
'What, when you are this very moment a houseless wanderer, without having done any wrong? How does your good character support you now?"
"For example, it has secured me your good offices," said I. "You would not have given me this good turn if I had been a worthless villain."
"Well, perhaps not; supposing I had known you for such—though worthless villains often escape deserved punishment, and sometimes are very plausible, and pay very well. And sometimes not"—reflectively.
"You seem to remember a case in point," said I, smiling.
"Well, I do," said La Croissette. "There was a young lord who led a sad course, and nearly fell into the hands of justice. He had a dashing, off-hand manner, that made friends till he was found out for what he was; and partly because he talked me over, and partly for high pay, I smuggled him beyond the reach of his enemies. But the pay never came. He won't get me to help him another time."
"He'll miss the want of a good character in the long run, then," said I.
"Oh, he has done so already; he lies in prison now. But so do many of you Huguenots, who have done nothing amiss. It seems to me there is one event to the good and to the wicked."
"Oh no, do not believe it," said I. "In the first place, none of us are righteous; no, not one; our merits only comparative. Thus, there is something in every one of us to punish; and sometimes the Lord sees fit to chasten His best-loved servants so severely, that it is difficult to distinguish their chastisement from His judgments on the wicked."
"That comes to what I was saying," said La Croissette; "that there is but one event to the good and to the bad."
"It seems so, though it is not so," said I. "But don't you perceive in this a grand argument in favor of a future life?"
"I am no scholar, I;—you must explain it to me," said La Croissette.
"If the Lord lets his dear children fall into the same afflictions here as the rebellious and impenitent, it is because He knows that in the long run, it will be to their advantage rather than otherwise: that they will turn their trials to such good account as actually to be the better for them; and that their light affliction, which is but for a moment, will work for them a far more exceeding and eternal weight of glory. So that hereafter they shall look back on their present pains, not only with indifference but with thankfulness. But ah! where shall then the unrighteous and sinner appear?"
"You seem to have a natural gift for preaching," said La Croissette, after a pause. "Where will they appear, say you? Why, if our priests are to be believed, those of them, even the very worst, who have money enough to pay for masses and indulgences, may buy themselves off from purgatory, and shine in glory with the best."
"Does not that carry incredibility and absurdity on the very face of it?"
"It seems very hard on the poor man who can't buy himself off," said La Croissette. "You Huguenots, then, don't believe in it?"
"Most assuredly not. God accepts no prayers that do not spring from a lowly and contrite heart: and they may be offered by a poor man as well as a rich one."
"But does not a poor man's soul require those purgatorial fires?"
"Oh no, my dear La Croissette! The Son of God told of no purgatory—only of heaven and hell. And He was so truthful that He would not have told of a hell if there had not been one—nor have failed to tell of a purgatory if there had been one. The end would not have been commensurate with the means, had He laid down his life to save us from anything short of condign punishment, or to save us only incompletely. If there were a purgatory to endure at any rate, where would be the all-sufficiency of his sacrifice once offered?"
He bade us believe in him and be saved. He did not say, 'believe also in my mother, and my brethren, and my apostles, and ask them to ask me to save you.' He said, 'Come unto me all ye that labor and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest.'"
"No! did he, though?" said La Croissette, suddenly checking his horse.
At the same moment, a woman sprang from the hedge and laid her hand on the shaft, saying:
"Good sir, save us! we perish!"
"What is the matter?" said he, starting.
"We are fugitives from Nismes; we were beaten, we were burnt, we were pillaged."
"My poor good woman, there are numbers in like case."
"But we starve," said she, bursting into tears. "My aged mother and my little ones."
"I am very sorry for you, but I am a poor man myself—here, take this trifle."
"Alas, we cannot eat money!" in a tone of such mournful reproach.
"No, true; it will buy a little bread—but there are no shops. Jean," in a lower voice to me, "I've a loaf in the cart, shall we part with it?"
"Give it to her by all means," said I.
Before he did so, he said to her, "True, you cannot eat money, but money will buy you bread in Nismes. Why not return there? The authorities are welcoming all that conform."
"Death rather than that!" said she, clasping her hands to her heart, and turning away.
"Stay, stay. Here is bread for you. It is all we have."
"Ah! bless—." She could say no more, but sobbed bitterly. La Croissette turned his face away.
"There are many of us, many!" sobbed she. "We shall so bless you. We will pray for you."
"Do so; do," said he, affecting composure, and whipping on.
CHAPTER IX.
CAST DOWN, BUT NOT DESTROYED.
The moon had now risen, and shone full on our road, which was completely exposed; but happily we met with no hindrance. The motion of the cart now made me very drowsy, and I fell into deep dreamless sleep. When I woke, feeling stiff and chilled, I wondered where I was. The cart had stopped, I was alone, the gray light of morning was forcing its way through the chinks of my little lodging-house, but the door was locked. I thought my position a curious one, and wondered whether La Croissette was going to give me up after all, to my enemies, but could not readily distrust a fellow apparently so kind-hearted. I lay still and listened to the sounds about me; the clucking of hens, gobbling of turkeys, stamping of horses, and lowing of calves, told me I was in a farm-yard. Then I heard voices, including that of La Croissette, and presently a sharp cry and then a laugh. By-and-by, the key turned in the lock and he looked in on me.
"So ho, you are awake after a famous long nap," said he. "Do you want your breakfast?"
"If I do, want must be my master," said I, returning his smile. "We gave away our only loaf."
"But what if I have earned another, and a good bowl of milk?" rejoined La Croissette, producing both as he spoke. "There, sit up and eat your fill; I've had my share in the house."
"Where are we?" said I, readily obeying his instructions.
"At a wayside farm-house, where the honest people have given my horse a good feed, and you and me a good breakfast."
"How did you earn it, then?"
"By pulling out a tooth for a great lubberly boy, whose cheek had swollen enormously with toothache. Did you not hear him cry out? You might almost have heard him from here to Nismes."
"Yes, I heard him cry and then laugh."
"Because he was so glad to have got rid of it."
"Can you draw teeth, then?"
"I never drew one before, but I went at it as if it was a regular thing with me."
"How could you venture?"
"Psha! it is good to show confidence; and every one must have a beginning. Which of us would let a doctor try his hand on us, if we knew it was for the first time?"
I smiled and shook my head at him, but said no more. When I had swallowed the delicious milk, he said,
"Now I will return the bowl, and bring out my horse. I told them I had a sick brother in the cart, recovering from a burning fever, or you would have had some visitors. To make doubly sure, I locked you up."
"Would not that have been enough without the other?" I said, grieved at his want of truth.
"No, I think not, and I'm not as particular as you are."
Presently we were driving off again, and for a mile or so in silence. Then La Croissette, looking back at me, said,
"There are certainly good people on both sides. That poor wretch to whom we gave the loaf was undoubtedly a good Huguenot; she would rather starve and die than abjure her faith. But here, again, are a family of Catholics, who are good, too, and believed every word I said, and liberally supplied my wants."
"Doubtless there are good people on both sides," said I; "and if the Catholics would believe it of us, we might yet live in peace and quietness together. We have not harmed them—it is they who harm us."
"For your good, they will tell you."
"They may tell us, but we cannot believe it. Their compulsions are not in the spirit of love."
La Croissette softly whistled, and presently talked of other things. By-and-by he said,
"Now we are coming to a town, and you shall see some fun."
"Will it be quite safe?"
"Safer than anything else. It is a fair-day; I shall drive straight into the market-place, blow my horn, and play the quack doctor. Nay, you shall be my accomplice and blow the horn. Let me put you in costume at once."
Saying which, he fished out a soiled scarlet cloak, gaily spangled, which he threw over my shoulders, produced a half-mask with an enormous red nose, with which he concealed the upper part of my face, covered my head with a Spanish hat and feather, and gave me a horn.
"Now blow as much as you like," said he; "be as brazen as your trumpet."
I laughed, and entered into the joke; no one would suspect me for a Huguenot.
La Croissette then disguised himself in Dr. Jameray's long black gown, and added a pair of green spectacles, which certainly heightened the effect. Having driven into the market-place, he placed a little table before him and spread it with boxes and phials, I blowing the horn from time to time in a way which he called quite original, and which speedily drew people about us. Then, with wonderful self-possession, he harangued them on the merits of his medicines. For instance, taking up a phial which contained a pink-colored fluid, he descanted on its virtues in this style:
"My friends, this small bottle contains a famous specific, for those who know how to use it prudently. When I say prudently, I mean that there are certain things it will do and others it will not. This remedy is for increasing the strength, improving the appetite, and clearing the head. Will it, therefore, set a broken arm or draw a tooth? Most certainly not. I can draw a tooth for you, if you like it (by-the-by, some think I have a gift that way, but self-praise is no recommendation); I can draw a tooth, I say, no matter with how many fangs; but this medicine cannot. Does it follow, then, that it will cure a cough or sore throat? Not at all. Here, if you like (taking up another bottle) is something that will, but what is that to the purpose? Will it cure sore eyes? No; or sprains? Far from it. No, no, my most excellent ladies and gentlemen, let us not form unreasonable expectations; day is not night; summer is not winter; nor is a horse-medicine a febrifuge. It is useless to assert such trash to sensible, well-informed people, Here is an opportunity, such as most of you may possibly never have again, of buying a most delightful and effectual medicine, sweet, not nauseous (strongly reminding one of cherry-brandy), gently exhilarating, and very difficult to be procured; indeed, I have only three small doses of it—three, did I say? I'm afraid I have only two—let me see—Oh, yes, here are three; and the price is merely nominal—"
The extreme frankness and moderation of this harangue of course met with great success; and purchasers speedily bought, not only his three pink bottles, but his green ones, his blue ones, his pills, his pomades, and his perfumed medicinal soaps that were to soften the skin, strengthen the joints, and promote longevity. After this, he sang a comic song of innumerable verses (with horn obligato) and delivered a discourse, in which he said there had never been more than three great men in the world, Louis the Fourteenth, Alexander the Great, and Hippocrates, the father of physic.
It was surprising to me how he carried on this game hour after hour, apparently without fatigue, and always to the delight of his audience, new-comers continually pressing around him, and old ones lingering in the distance with broad smiles on their faces. A little of it was well enough, but I thought that to be always at it must be harder work than the hardest handywork trade I knew. At last the day closed in, the people departed, we supplied ourselves with food, and departed like the rest.
"Now, then, have I not come off with flying colors?" said La Croissette, complacently.
"Assuredly you have: but you must be very tired."
"Tired as can be—you know I had no sleep last night—we are coming to a little thicket where we will roost for the night."
We had scarcely drawn up under the trees, which were thinning of leaves, when we heard a distant hollow sound gradually growing louder as it approached. "The dragoons," said La Croissette, in a low voice. "I trust we shall escape their notice."
They passed by like a whirlwind, taking the direction we had just left, and we congratulated ourselves on having quitted their path.
"These wretches, look you," said La Croissette, "know neither mercy nor justice; they know they are let loose on the country to do all the mischief they can, and if they find a Paradise, they leave it a howling wilderness."
Of this we had proof next day, when we came on their track, and found wretched women and children in tears and lamentations impossible for us to assuage: men that had been cudgelled within an inch of their lives, or hung up by their wrists or their heels till they swooned, lying on the ground uncared for and dying. Ah, what wickedness! and all under pretence of doing God service! I cannot dwell on the terrible scenes we saw in crossing the country. Sometimes La Croissette did some trifling act of kindness, but the evils demanded more potent remedies.
"This unfits me for my calling," said he, one day, as he scrambled into the cart and drove off. "How can one play the merry-andrew under such circumstances? What will become of these poor creatures as winter comes on, even if they can last till then? It is impossible they should all escape from the country—they will have to conform after all, and had they not better do so now?"
I replied, "It is written, 'Fear not, little flock; for it is the Father's good pleasure to give you the kingdom.'"
"The kingdom of France?"
"No, the kingdom of heaven."
"To whom were the words spoken?"
"To the early Christians, whose praise is in all the churches—whom the Catholics not only reverence but worship."
"Hum. Well, if they weathered such persecution as this, perhaps these may; but I could not stand it, I!—Do you know (with great awe) there are dungeons called Hippocrates' Sleeves, the walls of which slope like the inside of a funnel tapering to a point, so that those who are put inside them can neither lie, sit, nor stand? They are let down into them with cords, and drawn up every day to be whipped."
"And have any come forth alive from such places?"
"I grant you; but sometimes without teeth or hair."
"O, what glorious faith, to survive such a test!" exclaimed I.
"But some don't survive."
"O, what hallelujahs their freed spirits must sing as they find themselves suddenly released and soaring upward with myriads of rejoicing angels, to receive their welcome at the throne of God!"
"Jean, I never knew anything like you!" said La Croissette. "The worse the stories I tell you, the greater the triumph and exultation you cap them with."
I answered, "They overcame by the blood of the Lamb, and by the word of their testimony; and they loved not their lives unto the death." Rev. xii. II.
"Do you think you could bear being put into a Hippocrates' Sleeve?"
"I am not called on to think what I could bear: only to bear what is put on me."
"Your father, every word! As the old cock crows, so does the young one. But after all, 'tis a fearful thing to lie at the mercy of those that can devise and carry out such tortures."
"It is written, 'I say unto you, my friends, Be not afraid of them that kill the body, and after that have no more that they can do; but I will forewarn you whom ye shall fear. Fear Him which after He hath killed, hath power to cast into hell; yea, I say unto you, fear Him.'"
"You seem to have all the texts on this particular head at the tips of your fingers. Did you learn them for this particular purpose?"
"My dear mother used to repeat to me a text every night, and expect me to repeat it to her the next day."
"An excellent plan," said La Croissette, whipping his horse. And he hummed a tune.
When we reached Montauban, he said,
"I must now begin my old tricks, to earn a little money;" and he drew up in the market-place. But the people had been as heavily visited as at Nismes, and were in no mood for jesting. When he began to vend his nostrums, an old man of severe aspect held up his hand, and said:
"Peace, unfeeling man—you bring your senseless ribaldry to the wrong market. Here are only lamentations, and mourning, and woe."
"My good sir, one must live," said La Croisette.
"And how? tell me that!" retorted the old man, indignantly. "They that fed delicately are desolate in the streets; they that were clad in scarlet are cast on dunghills; the tongue of the suckling child cleaves to the roof of its mouth for thirst; the young children ask for bread, and no man giveth unto them."
Then, with a wail that was almost like a howl, he tore his hair and cried, "For this, for this mine eyes run down with water and mine eyelids take no rest. Is it nothing to you, all ye that pass by?"
"Jean, I cannot stand this," said La Croissette, as the old man hurried away. "All the people seem with broken hearts—it takes all spirit out of me. I cannot even hawk needles and pins among the starving—who would buy?"
I could only say, "How dreadful is this place! The Lord seems to have forsaken his sanctuary."
"Let us seek another place as soon as we can—"
"You forget: I am to be met here by an agent of my father's at La Boule d'Or."
"Ah, well, we will go thither."
When we drove into the inn-yard, however, we could hear unruly voices in the house, and feared we might fall into bad company. A man immediately came up to us, and said to me, in a low voice:
"Are you M. Jacques Bonneval?"
"I am. Are you Antoine Leroux?"
"Hist!—yes. There are ill-disposed people in the inn; you had better not go in-doors. Can you walk a little way?"
"Yes."
"Come with me, then."
"I must bid my companion farewell." Turning to La Croissette, I took his hand in both mine, and pressed it fervently, saying:
"My dear La Croissette, adieu. May God bless you in this world and the next. I wish I could make some return for your exceeding kindness, but, unfortunately, can give you nothing but my prayers."
"Pray say nothing of it," said he, cordially. "Your prayers are the very thing I should like to have, for, unfortunately, I am not good at them myself. As I pass a Calvary by the roadside I pull off my hat, in token of respect, you know, for what it represents; and had I had a bringing up like yours I might have had as pretty a turn for psalmody; but as the matter stands, why, you will be Jacques Bonneval, and I Bartholomé La Croissette to the end of the chapter. As for what I have done for you, why, it's nothing! I was coming this way, at any rate, and I've given you a lift; that's all."
"You may make light of it, if you will," said I, "but I know you have continually run risks for me; and depend on it, I shall never forget you. Adieu, my friend."
"Farewell, then," said he, "and take my best wishes with you. I hope you will now slip safely out of the country, but a good piece of it remains before you yet. Nor are your feet in good condition for walking."
"That has been provided for," said Antoine. "As soon as we get to the waterside we shall find a boat awaiting us, which will carry us to Bordeaux."
"But you are some way from the water.'
"Yes, but I have a cart."
We then parted, La Croissette kissing me on both cheeks with the utmost kindness; and I turned away with Antoine. Looking round as we quitted the court, I had my last glimpse of his tall, meagre figure, as he stood with his hand on his hip, looking after me; and I thought how strange and disproportionate a return his kindness to me had been for mine to him, in lifting him up and saving him from a kicking horse on the way to Beaucaire. The whole scene at once started up before me—our family party in the wagon—the girls' blooming faces and gay dresses—the crowded road—the music—the bustle. Then my thoughts flew on to what followed—the humors of the fair—the crowded table at my uncle's—my betrothal to Madeleine. What a different future then seemed to lie before us to what awaited us now! Where was she? Should we meet soon? Might we not be separated for ever? I cannot tell how many thoughts like these passed through my mind as I limped after Antoine, who was himself somewhat awkward in his gait, like many of the silk-weavers from sitting so constantly at the loom.
Thus we passed through some of the by-ways of Montauban, and entered a small house.