CHAPTER XIV.
IT GOES ILL.
It was August, and the leaves of the chestnuts were still green, whenthey sacked the St. Alais' house at Cahors, and I fell senseless onthe stairs. The ash trees were bare, and the oaks clad only in russet,when I began to know things again; and, looking sideways from mypillow into the grey autumnal world, took up afresh the task ofliving. Even then many days had to elapse before I ceased to be merelyan animal--content to eat, and drink, and sleep, and take FatherBenoit kneeling by my bed for one of the permanent facts of life. Butthe time did come at last, in late November, when the mind awoke, asthose who watched by me had never thought to see it awake; and,meeting the good Cure's eyes with my eyes, I saw him turn away andbreak into joyful weeping.
A week from that time I knew all--the story, public and private, ofthat wonderful autumn, during which I had lain like a log in my bed.At first, avoiding topics that touched me too nearly, Father Benoittold me of Paris; of the ten weeks of suspicion and suspense whichfollowed the Bastille riots--weeks during which the Fauxbourgs,scantly checked by Lafayette and his National Guards, kept jealouswatch on Versailles, where the Assembly sat in attendance on the King;of the scarcity which prevailed through this trying time, and theconstant rumours of an attack by the Court; of the Queen's unfortunatebanquet, which proved to be the spark that fired the mine; last ofall, of the great march of the women to Versailles, on the 5th ofOctober, which, by forcing the King and the Assembly to Paris, andmaking the King a prisoner in his own palace, put an end to thisperiod of uncertainty.
"And since then?" I said in feeble amazement. "This is the 20th ofNovember, you tell me?"
"Nothing has happened," he answered, "except signs and symptoms."
"And those?"
He shook his head gravely. "Every one is enrolled in the NationalGuards--that, for one. Here in Quercy, the corps which M. Hugues tookit in hand to form numbers some thousands. Every one is armed,therefore. Then, the game laws being abolished, every one is asportsman. And so many nobles have emigrated, that either there are nonobles or all are nobles."
"But who governs?"
"The Municipalities. Or, where there are none, Committees."
I could not help smiling. "And your Committee, M. le Cure?" I said.
"I do not attend it," he answered, wincing visibly. "To be plain, theygo too fast for me. But I have worse yet to tell you!"
"What?"
"On the Fourth of August the Assembly abolished the tithes of theChurch; early in this month they proposed to confiscate the estates ofthe Church! By this time it is probably done."
"What! And the clergy are to starve?" I cried in indignation.
"Not quite," he answered, smiling sadly. "They are to be paid by theState--as long as they please the State!"
He went soon after he had told me that; and I lay in amazement,looking through the window, and striving to picture the changed worldthat existed round me. Presently Andre came in with my broth. Ithought it weak, and said so; the strong gust of outside life, whichthe news had brought into my chamber, had roused my appetite, andgiven me a distaste for _tisanes_ and slops.
But the old fellow took the complaint very ill. "Well," he grumbled,"and what else is to be expected, Monsieur? With little rent paid,and half the pigeons in the cot slaughtered, and scarcely a hare leftin the country side? With all the world shooting and snaring, andsmiths and tailors cocked up on horses--ay, and with swords by theirsides--and the gentry gone, or hiding their heads in beds, it is asmall thing if the broth is weak! If M. le Vicomte liked strong broth,he should have been wise enough to keep the cow himself, and not----"
"Tut, tut, man!" I said, wincing in my turn. "What of Buton?"
"Monsieur means M. le Capitaine Buton?" the old man answered with asneer. "He is at Cahors."
"And was any one punished for--for the affair at St. Alais?"
"No one is punished now-a-days," Andre replied tartly. "Exceptsometimes a miller, who is hung because corn is dear."
"Then even Petit Jean----"
"Petit Jean went to Paris. Doubtless he is now a Major or a Colonel."
With this shot the old man left me--left me writhing. For through allI had not dared to ask the one thing I wished to know; the one thingthat, as my strength increased, had grown with it, from a vagueapprehension of evil, which the mind, when bidden do its duty, failedto grasp, to a dreadful anxiety only too well understood and defined;a brooding fear that weighed upon me like an evil dream, and in spiteof youth sapped my life, and retarded my recovery.
I have read that a fever sometimes burns out love; and that a manrises cured not only of his illness, but of the passion which consumedhim, when he succumbed to it. But this was not my fate; from themoment when that dull anxiety about I knew not what took shape andform, and I saw on the green curtains of my bed a pale child's face--aface that now wept and now gazed at me in sad appeal--from that momentMademoiselle was never out of my waking mind for an hour. God knows,if any thought of me on her part, if any silent cry of her heart to mein her troubles, had to do with this; but it was the case.
However, on the next day the fear and the weight were removed. Isuppose that Father Benoit had made up his mind to broach the subject,which hitherto he had shunned with care; for his first question, afterhe had learned how I did, brought it up. "You have never asked whathappened after you were injured, M. le Vicomte?" he said with a littlehesitation. "Do you remember?"
"I remember all," I said with a groan.
He drew a breath of relief. I think he had feared that there was stillsomething amiss with the brain. "And yet you have never asked?" hesaid.
"Man! cannot you understand why--why I have not asked?" I criedhoarsely, rising, and sinking back in my seat in uncontrollableagitation. "Cannot you understand that until I asked I had hope? Butnow, torture me no longer! Tell me, tell me all, man, and then----"
"There is nothing but good to tell," he answered cheerfully,endeavouring to dispel my fears at the first word. "You know theworst. Poor M. de Gontaut was killed on the stairs. He was too infirmto flee. The rest, to the meanest servant, got away over the roofs ofthe neighbouring houses."
"And escaped?"
"Yes. The town was in an uproar for many hours, but they were wellhidden. I believe that they have left the country."
"You do not know where they are, then?"
"No," he answered, "I never saw any of them after the outbreak. But Iheard of them being in this or that chateau--at the Harincourts', andelsewhere. Then the Harincourts left--about the middle of October, andI think that M. de St. Alais and his family went with them."
I lay for a while too full of thankfulness to speak. Then, "And youknow nothing more?"
"Nothing," the Cure answered.
But that was enough for me. When he came again I was able to walk withhim on the terrace, and after that I gained strength rapidly. Iremarked, however, that as my spirits rose, with air and exercise, thegood priest's declined. His kind, sensitive face grew day by day moresombre, his fits of silence longer. When I asked him the reason, "Itgoes ill, it goes ill," he said. "And, God forgive me, I had to dowith it."
"Who had not?" I said soberly.
"But I should have foreseen!" he answered, wringing his hands openly."I should have known that God's first gift to man was Order. Order,and to-day, in Cahors, there is no tribunal, or none that acts: theold magistrates are afraid, and the old laws are spurned, and no mancan even recover a debt! Order, and the worst thing a criminal, throwninto prison, has now to fear is that he may be forgotten. Order, and Isee arms everywhere, and men who cannot read teaching those who can,and men who pay no taxes disposing of the money of those who do! I seefamine in the town, and the farmers and the peasants killing game orfolding their hands; for who will work when the future is uncertain? Isee the houses of the rich empty, and their servants starving; I seeall trade, all commerce, all buying and selling, except of the barestnecessaries,
at an end! I see all these things, M. le Vicomte, andshall I not say, '_Mea Culpa, Mea Culpa_'?"
"But liberty," I said feebly. "You once said yourself that a certainprice must----"
"Is liberty licence to do wrong?" he answered with passion--seldom hadI seen him so moved. "Is liberty licence to rob and blaspheme, andmove your neighbour's landmark? Does tyranny cease to be tyranny, whenthe tyrants are no longer one, but a thousand? M. le Vicomte, I knownot what to do, I know not what to do," he continued. "For a little Iwould go out into the world, and at all costs unsay what I have said,undo what I have done! I would! I would indeed!"
"Something more has happened?" I said, startled by this outbreak."Something I have not heard?"
"The Assembly took away our tithes and our estates!" he answeredbitterly. "That you know. They denied our existence as a Church. Thatyou know. They have now decreed the suppression of all religioushouses. Presently they will close also our churches and cathedrals.And we shall be pagans!"
"Impossible!" I said.
"But it is true."
"The suppression, yes. But for the churches and cathedrals----"
"Why not?" he answered despondently. "God knows there is little faithabroad. I fear it will come. I see it coming. The greater need--thatwe who believe should testify."
I did not quite understand at the time what he meant or would be at,or what he had in his mind; but I saw that his scrupulous nature wastormented by the thought that he had hastened the catastrophe; and Ifelt uneasy when he did not appear next day at his usual time forvisiting me. On the following day he came; but was downcast andtaciturn, taking leave of me when he went with a sad kindness thatalmost made me call him back. The next day again he did not appear;nor the day after that. Then I sent for him, but too late; I sent,only to learn from his old housekeeper that he had left home suddenly,after arranging with a neighbouring cure to have his duties performedfor a month.
I was able by this time to go abroad a little, and I walked down tohis cottage; I could learn no more there, however, than that aCapuchin monk had been his guest for two nights, and that M. le Curehad left for Cahors a few hours after the monk. That was all; Ireturned depressed and dissatisfied. Such villagers as I met by theway greeted me with respect, and even with sympathy--it was the firsttime I had gone into the hamlet; but the shadow of suspicion which Ihad detected on their faces some months before had grown deeper anddarker with time. They no longer knew with certainty their places ormine, their rights or mine; and shy of me and doubtful of themselves,were glad to part from me.
Near the gates of the avenue I met a man whom I knew; a wine-dealerfrom Aulnoy. I stayed to ask him if the family were at home.
He looked at me in surprise. "No, M. le Vicomte," he said. "They leftthe country some weeks ago--after the King was persuaded to go toParis."
"And M. le Baron?"
"He too."
"For Paris?"
The man, a respectable bourgeois, grinned at me. "No, Monsieur, Ifancy not," he said. "You know best, M. le Vicomte; but if I saidTurin, I doubt I should be little out."
"I have been ill," I said. "And have heard nothing."
"You should go into Cahors," he answered; with rough good-nature."Most of the gentry are there--if they have not gone farther. It issafer than the country in these days. Ah, if my father had lived tosee----"
He did not finish the sentence in words, but raised his eyebrows andshoulders, saluted me, and rode away. In spite of his surprise it waseasy to see that the change pleased him, though he veiled hissatisfaction out of civility.
I walked home feeling lonely and depressed. The tall stone house, theseigneurial tower and turret and dovecot, stripped of the veil offoliage that in summer softened their outlines, stood up bare andgaunt at the end of the avenue; and seemed in some strange way toshare my loneliness and to speak to me of evil days on which we hadalike fallen. In losing Father Benoit I had lost my only chance ofsociety just when, with returning strength, the desire forcompanionship and a more active life was awakening. I thought of thisgloomily; and then was delighted to see, as I approached the door, ahorse tethered to the ring beside it. There were holsters on thesaddle, and the girths were splashed.
Andre was in the hall, but to my surprise, instead of informing methat there was a visitor, he went on dusting a table, with his back tome.
"Who is here?" I said sharply.
"No one," he answered.
"No one? Then whose is that horse?"
"The smith's, Monsieur."
"What? Buton's?"
"Ay, Buton's! It is a new thing hanging it at the front door," headded, with a sneer.
"But what is he doing? Where is he?"
"He is where he ought to be; and that is at the stables," the oldfellow answered doggedly. "I'll be bound that it is the first piece ofhonest work he has done for many a day."
"Is he shoeing?"
"Why not? Does Monsieur want him to dine with him?" was theill-tempered retort.
I took no notice of this, but went to the stables. I could hear thebellows heaving; and turning the corner of the building I came onButon at work in the forge with two of his men. The smith was strippedto his shirt, and with his great leather apron round him, and hisbare, blackened arms, looked like the Buton of six months ago. Butoutside the forge lay a little heap of clothes neatly folded, a bluecoat with red facings, a long blue waistcoat, and a hat with a hugetricolour; and as he released the horse's hoof on which he was atwork, and straightened himself to salute me, he looked at me with anew look, that was something between appeal and defiance.
"Tut, tut!" I said, fleering at him. "This is too great an honour, M.le Capitaine! To be shod by a member of the Committee!"
"Has M. le Vicomte anything of which to complain?" he said, reddeningunder the deep tan of his face.
"I? No, indeed. I am only overwhelmed by the honour you do me."
"I have been here to shoe once a month," he persisted stubbornly."Does Monsieur complain that the horses have suffered?"
"No. But----"
"Has M. le Vicomte's house suffered? Has so much as a stack of hiscorn been burned, or a colt taken from the fields, or an egg from thenest?"
"No," I said.
Buton nodded gloomily. "Then if Monsieur has no fault to find," hereplied, "perhaps he will let me finish my work. Afterwards I willdeliver a message I have for him. But it is for his ear, and theforge----"
"Is not the place for secrets, though the smith is the man!" Ianswered, with a parting gibe, fired over my shoulders. "Well, come tome on the terrace when you have finished."
He came an hour later, looking hugely clumsy in his fine clothes; andwith a sword--heaven save us!--a sword by his side. Presently themurder came out; he was the bearer of a commission appointing meLieutenant-Colonel in the National Guard of the Province. "It wasgiven at my request," he said, with awkward pride. "There were some,M. le Vicomte, who thought that you had not behaved altogether well inthe matter of the riot, but I rattled their heads together. Besides Isaid, 'No Lieutenant-Colonel, no Captain!' and they cannot do withoutme. I keep this side quiet."
What a position it was! Ah, what a position it was! And how for amoment the absurdity of it warred in my mind with the humiliation! Sixmonths before I should have torn up the paper in a fury, and flung itin his face, and beaten him out of my presence with my cane. But muchhad happened since then; even the temptation to break into laughter,into peal upon peal of gloomy merriment, was not now invincible. Iovercame it by an effort, partly out of prudence, partly from abetter motive--a sense of the man's rough fidelity amid circumstances,and in face of anomalies, the most trying. I thanked him instead,therefore--though I almost choked; and I said I would write to theCommittee.
Still he lingered, rubbing one great foot against another; and Iwaited with mock politeness to hear his business. At length, "There isanother thing I wish to say, M. le Vicomte," he growled. "M. le Curehas left Saux."
"Yes?"
"Well, he is a good
man; or he was a good man," he continuedgrudgingly. "But he is running into trouble, and you would do well tolet him know that."
"Why?" I said. "Do you know where he is?"
"I can guess," he answered. "And where others are, too; and wherethere will presently be trouble. These Capuchin monks are not aboutthe country for nothing. When the crows fly home there will betrouble. And I do not want him to be in it."
"I have not the least idea where he is," I said coldly. "Nor what youmean." The smith's tone had changed and grown savage and churlish.
"He has gone to Nimes," he answered.
"To Nimes?" I cried in astonishment. "How do you know? It is more thanI know."
"I do know," he answered. "And what is brewing there. And so do agreat many more. But this time the St. Alais and their bullies, M. leVicomte--ay, they are all there--will not escape us. We will breaktheir necks. Yes, M. le Vicomte, make no mistake," he continued,glaring at me, his eyes red with suspicion and anger, "mix yourselvesup with none of this. We are the people! The people! Woe to the man orthing that stands in our way!"
"Go!" I said. "I have heard enough. Begone!"
He looked at me a moment as if he would answer me. But old habitsovercame him, and with a sullen word of farewell he turned, and wentround the house. A minute later I heard his horse trot down theavenue.
I had cut him short; nevertheless the instant he was gone I wished himback, that I might ask him more. The St. Alais at Nimes? Father Benoitat Nimes? And a plot brewing there in which all had a hand? In amoment the news opened a window, as it were, into a wider world,through which I looked, and no longer felt myself shut in by thelonely country round me and the lack of society. I looked and saw thegreat white dusty city of the south, and trouble rising in it, and inthe middle of the trouble, looking at me wistfully, Denise de St.Alais.
Father Benoit had gone thither. Why might not I?
I walked up and down in a flutter of spirits, and the longer Iconsidered it, the more I liked it; the longer I thought of the dullinaction in which I must spend my time at home, unless I consented torub shoulders with Buton and his like, the more taken I was with theidea of leaving.
And after all why not? Why should I not go?
I had my commission in my pocket, wherein I was not only appointed tothe National Guards, but described as _ci-devant_ "President of theCouncil of Public Safety in the Province of Quercy"; and this takingthe place of papers or passport would render travelling easy. My longillness would serve as an excuse for a change of air; and explain myabsence from home; I had in the house as much money as I needed. In aword, I could see no difficulty, and nothing to hinder me, if I choseto go. I had only to please myself.
So the choice was soon made. The following day I mounted a horse forthe first time, and rode two-thirds of a league on the road, and homeagain very tired.
Next morning I rode to St. Alais, and viewed the ruins of the houseand returned; this time I was less fatigued.
Then on the following day, Sunday, I rested; and on the Monday I rodehalf-way to Cahors and back again. That evening I cleaned my pistolsand overlooked Gil while he packed my saddle-bags, choosing two plainsuits, one to pack and one to wear, and a hat with a small tricolourrosette. On the following morning, the 6th of March, I took the road;and parting from Andre on the outskirts of the village, turned myhorse's head towards Figeac with a sense of freedom, of escape fromdifficulties and embarrassments, of hope and anticipation, that madethat first hour delicious; and that still supported me when the Marchday began to give place to the chill darkness of evening--evening thatin an unknown, untried place is always sombre and melancholy.