CHAPTER XV.
AT MILHAU.
I met with many strange things on that journey. I found it strange tosee, as I went, armed peasants in the fields; to light in each villageon men drilling; to enter inns and find half a dozen rustics seatedround a table with glasses and wine, and perhaps an inkpot beforethem, and to learn that they called themselves a Committee. Buttowards evening of the third day I saw a stranger thing than any ofthese. I was beginning to mount the valley of the Tarn which runs upinto the Cevennes at Milhau; a north wind was blowing, the sky wasovercast, the landscape grey and bare; a league before me masses ofmountain stood up gloomily blue. On a sudden, as I walked wearilybeside my horse, I heard voices singing in chorus; and looked aboutme. The sound, clear and sweet as fairy's music, seemed to rise fromthe earth at my feet.
A few yards farther, and the mystery explained itself. I found myselfon the verge of a little dip in the ground, and saw below me the roofsof a hamlet, and on the hither side of it a crowd of a hundred ormore, men and women. They were dancing and singing round a great tree,leafless, but decked with flags: a few old people sat about the rootsinside the circle, and but for the cold weather and the bleak outlook,I might have thought that I had come on a May-day festival.
My appearance checked the singing for a moment; then two elderlypeasants made their way through the ring and came to meet me, walkinghand in hand. "Welcome to Vlais and Giron!" cried one. "Welcome toGiron and Vlais!" cried the other. And then, before I could answer,"You come on a happy day," cried both together.
I could not help smiling. "I am glad of that," I said. "May I ask whatis the reason of your meeting?"
"The Communes of Giron and Vlais, of Vlais and Giron," they answered,speaking alternately, "are today one. To-day, Monsieur, old boundariesdisappear; old feuds die. The noble heart of Giron, the noble heart ofVlais, beat as one."
I could scarcely refrain from laughing at their simplicity;fortunately, at that moment, the circle round the tree resumed theirsong and dance, which had even in that weather a pretty effect, as ofa Watteau _fete_. I congratulated the two peasants on the sight.
"But, Monsieur, this is nothing," one of them answered with perfectgravity. "It is not only that the boundaries of communes aredisappearing; those of provinces are of the past also. At Valence,beyond the mountains, the two banks of the Rhone have clasped handsand sworn eternal amity. Henceforth all Frenchmen are brothers; allFrenchmen are of all provinces!"
"That is a fine idea," I said.
"No son of France will again shed French blood!" he continued.
"So be it."
"Catholic and Protestant, Protestant and Catholic will live at peace!There will be no law-suits. Grain will circulate freely, unchecked bytoils or dues. All will be free, Monsieur. All will be rich."
They said more in the same sanguine simple tone, and with the samenaive confidence; but my thoughts strayed from them, attracted by aman, who, seated among the peasants at the foot of the tree, seemed tomy eyes to be of another class. Tall and lean, with lank black hair,and features of a stern, sour cast, he had nothing of outward show todistinguish him from those round him. His dress, a rough hunting suit,was old and patched; the spurs on his brown, mud-stained boots wererusty and bent. Yet his carriage possessed an ease the others lacked;and in the way he watched the circling rustics I read a quiet scorn.
I did not notice that he heeded or returned my gaze, but I had notgone on my way a hundred paces, after taking leave of the two mayorsand the revellers, before I heard a step, and looking round, saw thestranger coming after me. He beckoned, and I waited until he overtookme.
"You are going to Milhau?" he said, speaking abruptly, and with astrong country accent; yet in the tone of one addressing an equal.
"Yes, Monsieur," I said. "But I doubt if I shall reach the townto-night."
"I am going also," he answered. "My horse is in the village."
And without saying more he walked beside me until we reached thehamlet. There--the place was deserted--he brought from an outhouse asorry mare, and mounted. "What do you think of that rubbish?" he saidsuddenly as we took the road again. I had watched his proceedings insilence.
"I fear that they expect too much," I answered guardedly.
He laughed; a horse-laugh full of scorn. "They think that themillennium has come," he said. "And in a month they will find theirbarns burned and their throats cut."
"I hope not," I said.
"Oh, I hope not," he answered cynically. "I hope not, of course. Buteven so _Vive la Nation! Vive la Revolution!_"
"What? If that be its fruit?" I asked.
"Ay, why not?" he answered, his gloomy eyes fixed on me. "It is everyone for himself, and what has the old rule done for me that I shouldfear to try the new? Left me to starve on an old rock and a dovecot;sheltered by bare stones, and eating out of a black pot! While womenand bankers, scented fops and lazy priests prick it before the King!And why? Because I remain, sir, what half the nation once were."
"A Protestant?" I hazarded.
"Yes, Monsieur. And a poor noble," he answered bitterly. "The Baron deGeol, at your service."
I gave him my name in return.
"You wear the tricolour," he said; "yet you think me extreme? Ianswer, that that is all very well for you; but we are differentpeople. You are doubtless a family man, M. le Vicomte, with awife----"
"On the contrary, M. le Baron."
"Then a mother, a sister?"
"No," I said, smiling. "I have neither. I am quite alone."
"At least with a home," he persisted, "means, friends, employment, orthe chance of employment?"
"Yes," I said, "that is so."
"Whereas I--I," he answered, growing guttural in his excitement,"have none of these things. I cannot enter the army--I am aProtestant! I am shut off from the service of the State--I am aProtestant! I cannot be a lawyer or a judge--I am a Protestant! TheKing's schools are closed to me--I am a Protestant! I cannot appear atCourt--I am a Protestant! I--in the eyes of the law I do not exist!I--I, Monsieur," he continued more slowly, and with an air not devoidof dignity, "whose ancestors stood before Kings, and whosegrandfather's great-grandfather saved the fourth Henry's life atCoutras--I do not exist!"
"But now?" I said, startled by his tone of passion.
"Ay, now," he answered grimly, "it is going to be different. Now, itis going to be otherwise, unless these black crows of priests put theclock back again. That is why I am on the road."
"You are going to Milhau?"
"I live near Milhau," he answered. "And I have been from home. But Iam not going home now. I am going farther--to Nimes."
"To Nimes?" I said in surprise.
"Yes," he said. And he looked at me askance and a trifle grimly, anddid not say any more. By this time it was growing dark; the valley ofthe Tarn, along which our road lay, though fertile and pleasant to theeye in summer, wore at this season, and in the half-light, a savageand rugged aspect. Mountains towered on either side; and sometimes,where the road drew near the river, the rushing of the water as itswirled and eddied among the rocks below us, added its note ofmelancholy to the scene. I shivered. The uncertainty of my quest, theuncertainty of everything, the gloom of my companion, pressed upon me.I was glad when he roused himself from his brooding, and pointed tothe lights of Milhau glimmering here and there on a little plain,where the mountains recede from the river.
"You are doubtless going to the inn?" he said, as we entered theoutskirts. I assented. "Then we part here," he continued. "To-morrow,if you are going to Nimes---- But you may prefer to travel alone."
"Far from it," I said.
"Well, I shall be leaving the east gate--about eight o'clock," heanswered grudgingly. "Good-night, Monsieur."
I bade him good-night, and leaving him there, rode into the town:passing through narrow, mean streets, and under dark archways andhanging lanterns, that swung and creaked in the wind, and dideverything but light the
squalid obscurity. Though night had fallen,people were moving briskly to and fro, or standing at their doors; theplace, after the solitude through which I had ridden, had the air of acity; and presently I became aware that a little crowd was followingmy horse. Before I reached the inn, which stood in a dimly-lit square,the crowd had grown into a great one, and was beginning to press uponme; some who marched nearest to me staring up inquisitively into myface, while others, farther off, called to their neighbours, or to dimforms seen at basement windows, that it was he!
I found this somewhat alarming. Still they did not molest me; but whenI halted they halted too, and I was forced to dismount almost in theirarms. "Is this the inn?" I said to those nearest tome; striving toappear at my ease.
"Yes! yes!" they cried with one voice, "that is the inn!"
"My horse----"
"We will take the horse! Enter! Enter!"
I had little choice, they flocked so closely round me; and, affectingcarelessness, I complied, thinking that they would not follow, andthat inside I should learn the meaning of their conduct. But themoment my back was turned they pressed in after me and beside me, and,almost sweeping me off my feet, urged me along the narrow passage ofthe house, whether I would or no. I tried to turn and remonstrate; butthe foremost drowned my words in loud cries for "M. Flandre! M.Flandre!"
Fortunately the person addressed was not far off. A door towards whichI was being urged opened, and he appeared. He proved to be animmensely stout man, with a face to match his body; and he gazed at usfor a moment, astounded by the invasion. Then he asked angrily whatwas the matter. "_Ventre de Ciel!_" he cried. "Is this my house oryours, rascals? Who is this?"
"The Capuchin! The Capuchin!" cried a dozen voices.
"Ho! ho!" he answered, before I could speak. "Bring a light."
Two or three bare-armed women whom the noise had brought to the doorof the kitchen fetched candles, and raising them above their headsgazed at me curiously. "Ho! ho!" he said again. "The Capuchin is it?So you have got him."
"Do I look like one?" I cried angrily, thrusting back those whopressed on me most closely. "_Nom de Dieu!_ Is this the way youreceive guests, Monsieur? Or is the town gone mad?"
"You are not the Capuchin monk?" he said, somewhat taken aback, Icould see, by my boldness.
"Have I not said that I am not? Do monks in your country travel inboots and spurs?" I retorted.
"Then your papers!" he answered curtly. "Your papers! I would have youto know," he continued, puffing out his cheeks, "that I am Mayor hereas well as host, and I keep the jail as well as the inn. Your papers,Monsieur, if you prefer the one to the other."
"Before your friends here?" I said contemptuously.
"They are good citizens," he answered.
I had some fear, now I had come to the pinch, that the commission Icarried might fail to produce all the effects with which I hadcredited it. But I had no choice, and ultimately nothing to dread; andafter a momentary hesitation I produced it. Fortunately it was drawnin complimentary terms and gave the Mayor, I know not how, the ideathat I was actually bound at the moment on an errand of state. When hehad read it, therefore, he broke into a hundred apologies, cravedleave to salute me, and announced to the listening crowd that they hadmade a mistake.
It struck me at the time as strange, that they, the crowd, were not atall embarrassed by their error. On the contrary, they hastened tocongratulate me on my acquittal, and even patted me on the shoulder intheir good humour; some went to see that my horse was brought in, orto give orders on my behalf, and the rest presently dispersed, leavingme fain to believe that they would have hung me to the nearest_lanterne_ with the same stolid complaisance.
When only two or three remained, I asked the Mayor for whom they hadtaken me.
"A disguised monk, M. le Vicomte," he said. "A very dangerous fellow,who is known to be travelling with two ladies--all to Nimes; andorders have been sent from a high quarter to arrest him."
"But I am alone!" I protested. "I have no ladies with me."
He shrugged his shoulders. "Just so, M. le Vicomte," he answered. "Butwe have got the two ladies. They were arrested this morning, whileattempting to pass through the town in a carriage. We know, therefore,that he is now alone."
"Oh," I said. "So now you only want him? And what is the chargeagainst him?" I continued, remembering with a languid stirring of thepulses that a Capuchin monk had visited Father Benoit before hisdeparture. It seemed to be strange that I should come upon the tracesof another here.
"He is charged," M. Flandre answered pompously, "with high treasonagainst the nation, Monsieur. He has been seen here, there, andeverywhere, at Montpellier, and Cette, and Albi, and as far away asAuch; and always preaching war and superstition, and corrupting thepeople."
"And the ladies?" I said smiling. "Have they too been corrupting----"
"No, M. le Vicomte. But it is believed that wishing to return toNimes, and learning that the roads were watched, he disguised himselfand joined himself to them. Doubtless they are _devotes_."
"Poor things!" I said, with a shudder of compassion; every one seemedto be so good-tempered, and yet so hard. "What will you do with them?"
"I shall send for orders," he answered. "In his case," he continuedairily, "I should not need them. But here is your supper. Pardon me,M. le Vicomte, if I do not attend on you myself. As Mayor I have totake care that I do not compromise--but you understand?"
I said civilly that I did; and supper being laid, as was then thecustom in the smaller inns, in my bedroom, I asked him to take a glassof wine with me, and over the meal learned much of the state of thecountry, and the fermentation that was at work along the southernseaboard, the priests stirring up the people with processions andsermons. He waxed especially eloquent upon the excitement at Nimes,where the masses were bigoted Romanists, while the Protestants had afollowing, too, with the hardy peasants of the mountains behind them."There will be trouble, M. le Vicomte, there will be trouble there,"he said with meaning. "Things are going too well for the people _labas_. They will stop them if they can."
"And this man?"
"Is one of their missionaries."
I thought of Father Benoit, and sighed. "By the way," the Mayor saidabruptly, gazing at me in moony thoughtfulness, "that is curious now!"
"What?" I said.
"You come from Cahors, M. le Vicomte?"
"Well?"
"So do these women; or they say they do. The prisoners."
"From Cahors?"
"Yes. It is odd now," he continued, rubbing his chin, "but when I readyour commission I did not think of that."
I shrugged my shoulders impatiently. "It does not follow that I am inthe plot," I said. "For goodness sake, M. le Maire, do not let us openthe case again. You have seen my papers, and----"
"Tut! tut!" he said. "That is not my meaning. But you may know thesepersons."
"Oh!" I said; and then I sat a moment, staring at him between thecandles, my hand raised, a morsel on my fork. A wild extravagantthought had flashed into my mind. Two ladies from Cahors? From Cahors,of all places? "How do they call themselves?" I asked.
"Corvas," he answered.
"Oh! Corvas," I said, falling to eating again, and putting the morselinto my mouth. And I went on with my supper.
"Yes. A merchant's wife, she says she is. But you shall see her."
"I don't remember the name," I answered.
"Still, you may know them," he rejoined, with the dull persistence ofa man of few ideas. "It is just possible that we have made a mistake,for we found no papers in the carriage, and only one thing that seemedsuspicious."
"What was that?"
"A red cockade."
"A _red_ cockade?"
"Yes," he answered. "The badge of the old Leaguers, you know."
"But," I said, "I have not heard of any party adopting that."
He rubbed his bald head a little doubtfully. "No," he said, "that istrue. Still, it is a colour we don't like here. And two ladiestravelli
ng alone--alone, Monsieur! Then their driver, a half-wittedfellow, who said that they had engaged him at Rodez, though he deniedstoutly that he had seen the Capuchin, told two or three tales.However, if you will eat no more, M. le Vicomte, I will take you tosee them. You may be able to speak for or against them."
"If you do not think that it is too late?" I said, shrinking somewhatfrom the interview.
"Prisoners must not be choosers," he answered, with an unpleasantchuckle. And he called from the door for a lantern and his cloak.
"The ladies are not here, then?" I said.
"No," he answered, with a wink. "Safe bind, safe find! But they havenothing to cry about. There are one or two rough fellows in the clink,so Babet, the jailer, has given them room in his house."
At this moment the lantern came, and the Mayor having wrapped hisportly person in a cloak, we passed out of the house. The squareoutside was utterly dark, such lights as had been burning when Iarrived had been extinguished, perhaps by the wind, which was rising,and now blew keenly across the open space. The yellow glare of thelantern was necessary, but though it showed us a few feet of theroadway, and enabled us to pick our steps, it redoubled the darknessbeyond; I could not see even the line of the roofs, and had no idea inwhat direction we had gone or how far, when M. Flandre haltedabruptly, and, raising the lantern, threw its light on a greasy stonewall, from which, set deep in the stone-work, a low iron-studded doorfrowned on us. About the middle of the door hung a huge knocker, andabove it was a small _grille_.
"Safe bind, safe find!" the Mayor said again with a fat chuckle; but,instead of raising the knocker, he drew his stick sharply across thebars of the _grille_.
The summons was understood and quickly answered. A face peered amoment through the grating; then the door opened to us. The Mayor tookthe lead, and we passed in, out of the night, into a close, warm airreeking of onions and foul tobacco, and a hundred like odours. Thejailer silently locked the door behind us, and, taking the Mayor'slantern from him, led the way down a grimy, low-roofed passage barelywide enough for one man. He halted at the first door on the left ofthe passage, and threw it open.
M. Flandre entered first, and, standing while he removed his hat, foran instant filled the doorway. I had time to hear and note a burst ofobscene singing, which came from a room farther down the passage; andthe frequent baying of a prison-dog, that, hearing us, flung itselfagainst its chain, somewhere in the same direction. I noted, too, thatthe walls of the passage in which I stood were dingy and tricklingwith moisture, and then a voice, speaking in answer to M. Flandre'ssalutation, caught my ear and held me motionless.
The voice was Madame's--Madame de St. Alais'!
It was fortunate that I had entertained, though but a second, thewild, extravagant thought that had occurred to me at supper; for in ameasure it had prepared me. And I had little time for otherpreparation, for thought, or decision. Luckily the room was thick withvile tobacco smoke, and the steam from linen drying by the fire; and Itook advantage of a fit of coughing, partly assumed, to linger aninstant on the threshold after M. Flandre had gone in. Then I followedhim.
There were four people in the room besides the Mayor, but I had noeyes for the frowsy man and woman who sat playing with a filthy packof cards at a table in the middle of the floor. I had only eyes forMadame and Mademoiselle, and them I devoured. They sat on two stoolson the farther side of the hearth; the girl with her head laid wearilyback against the wall, and her eyes half-closed; the mother, erect andwatchful, meeting the Mayor's look with a smile of contempt. Neitherthe prison-house, nor danger, nor the companionship of this squalidhole had had power to reduce her fine spirit; but as her eyes passedfrom the Mayor and encountered mine, she started to her feet with agasping cry, and stood staring at me.
It was not wonderful that for a second, peering through the reek, shedoubted. But one there was there who did not doubt. Mademoiselle hadsprung up in alarm at the sound of her mother's cry, and for thebriefest moment we looked at one another. Then she sank back on herstool, and I heard her break into violent crying.
"Hallo!" said the Mayor. "What is this?"
"A mistake, I fear," I said hoarsely, in words I had already composed."I am thankful, Madame," I continued, bowing to her with distantceremony, and as much indifference as I could assume, "that I am sofortunate as to be here."
She muttered something and leaned against the wall. She had not yetrecovered herself.
"You know the ladies?" the Mayor said, turning to me and speakingroughly; even with a tinge of suspicion in his voice. And he lookedfrom one to the other of us sharply.
"Perfectly," I said.
"They are from Cahors?"
"From that neighbourhood."
"But," he said, "I told you their names, and you said that you did notknow them, M. le Vicomte?"
For a moment I held my breath; gazing into Madame's face and readingthere anxiety, and something more--a sudden terror. I took the leap--Icould do nothing else. "You told me Corvas--that the lady's name wasCorvas," I muttered.
"Yes," he said.
"But Madame's name is Correas."
"Correas?" he repeated, his jaw falling.
"Yes, Correas. I dare say that the ladies," I continued with assumedpoliteness, "did not in their fright speak very clearly."
"And their name is Correas?"
"I told you that it was," Madame answered, speaking for the firsttime, "and also that I knew nothing of your Capuchin monk. And thislast," she continued earnestly, her eyes fixed on mine in passionateappeal--in appeal that this time could not be mistaken--"I say again,on my honour!"
I knew that she meant this for me; and I responded to the cry. "Yes,M. le Maire," I said, "I am afraid that you have made a mistake. I cananswer for Madame as for myself."
The Mayor rubbed his head.