The Scourge of God 17 – Bloundelle-Burton · Verses Across
Literature · Historical Fiction
The Scourge of God 17The Ruse
18
Literature · Historical Fiction
The Scourge of God 17
The Ruse
Bloundelle-BurtonEnglish
Nevertheless he was convinced that he was not mistaken. Yet where--where had he seen this nephew of De Broglie before?
As one racks his brain to call up some circumstance or surrounding in connection with a face that puzzles him, to recollect some action associated with that face which shall assist the struggle of memory to assert itself, he racked his brain now. Yet all was of no avail, even though he brought before his mind every scene he could recollect since first he had returned to France.
Of no avail!
The full deep wig à la brigadier, the laced blue coat, the ivory-hilted sword of the young aristocrat, helped him not in the least; refused rather to assimilate themselves in his memory with the features which teased his recollection so. Yet, even as he meditated thus, while these four men--himself, the commandant, the man who perplexed him, and the officer under him--sat at supper in the old banqueting room used by generations of the De Servas, he found himself repeating those very words which had risen to his mind, "the young aristocrat."
Young aristocrat! Well, if so, a strange one, and surely not possessing the marks of breeding which a De Broglie should be the owner of! He ate roughly, coarsely, almost it seemed greedily; also he drank as a peasant drinks, in great copious draughts; laughed noisily and loudly. Moreover, from out of the ruffles of Valenciennes there protruded hands that scarcely proclaimed him a member of a well-born family. Hands broad and with ill-shapen fingers, the nails of which were flat and broken and none too clean; not the hands of one in whose veins ran the blood of countless well-born men and women!
"Pity 'tis," this scion of la vieille roche muttered to the commandant, "that mademoiselle does not honour us to-night. Tired, you say, after the fatigue of her escape from those base fanatics? Ha, sans doute! May she always escape as easily! 'Twill be well for her."
As he spoke, Martin, removing his eyes from his face, saw a sight that startled him--a sight that told him something terrible was in the air.
Far down, at the end of the old room, there was a small door, it not being the main one; and at that door, which was open about half a foot, he saw the face of Urbaine Ducaire, with, on it, an awful look of horror--a horror which had brought to her face a whiteness such as that which is upon the countenance of a corpse within its shroud; in her eyes a glare such as is in the eyes of those who have seen a sight to blast them. A glare, a look of agony, piteous to see.
At first he knew not what to do, yet even as he hesitated, undecided, he felt sure he must not draw the attention of those at the table to her, unless indeed he could attract the attention of the commandant alone, for it dawned on him, though he could not have explained why, that she, standing there behind the door, showing only that white face and those terror-haunted eyes, had been endeavouring to make the old man see her without being observed by the others.
What did it mean? What portend?
The conversation was eager between the remaining three at the table, the commandant advancing a plan for trapping the Camisards in their mountain fastnesses which Julien had a week or so before propounded, the nephew of De Broglie and his companion listening, it seemed scornfully, certainly deriding such plan.
"It will never succeed," the first of these two said; "never, never," and he laughed. "We, we of the king's forces, shall be driven back by these vile fanatics, or led into a snare, or guet-apens up in the mountains. And then woe, woe to all! Not one will return to the valleys, to the towns, to tell the tale."
Yet as he spoke, uttered such predictions of disaster, it seemed almost as though he gloated over the picture he drew.
And still Martin saw ever before him the terrified face of Urbaine Ducaire peering from behind the far-off door, the eyes glaring into the room like the eyes of one who knows that behind her comes some awful thing. With, in them, too, as it seemed to him, a piteous glance, a glance of agony that she could not attract the gaze of the man she sought--the commandant.
He could bear it no longer. Somehow he must reach her, communicate with her, know what it was that has struck such fear into her soul.
An excuse for him to leave the table seemed easy. The room had grown very hot. Already the nephew of De Broglie had protested he must remove his great wig. The commandant had said they must have air.
"I will go and open the door," Martin said, rising from his place. To open the windows would have been impossible since they were set high up in the walls, as was the case in most châteaux of the day, and could not be reached without a ladder. "The one at the farther end." And as he went toward it he prayed Heaven none would follow him. Also he saw that the girl's face was withdrawn as he rose from his chair, the door closed-to gently. Then, a moment later, he reached it.
Setting it open, he glanced into the narrow passage that ran outside, the farthest wall of this corridor having several low windows in it which gave on to the courtyard; and, turning his eyes into its dimness, he perceived Urbaine standing there, her back against the wall, her arms extended droopingly against it too, as though thereby to prevent herself from falling.
"Mademoiselle," he said, in a low voice, advancing toward her, "mademoiselle, what has distressed, terrified you thus? I fear that----"
Was she gone mad, he wondered! As he spoke she put both her hands out in front of her, removing them from the wall and extending them from her body as though to ward him off, to defend herself from him. Also she pressed her body back against that wall as if thereby she might shrink into it--away from him.
"Mademoiselle!" he exclaimed, amazed. "Mademoiselle----" but paused again, for still she drew herself away from him as from some unclean, loathsome thing. Then her white lips moved; he heard the words that issued from them.
"Traitor!" she said. "Perfidious traitor! Come not near me!" and with her hands she drew her travelling robe close round her as though to prevent even that from being contaminated by him.
"Are you distraught, mademoiselle?" he asked. "Are----?" yet stopped once more in his speech, for now, in the dusk of the night, he saw those staring eyes, which he had deemed so lovely but a few hours ago, glancing out through the passage window to the courtyard below; saw them rivetted upon something beneath in that courtyard; saw, too, that she shuddered as she gazed.
Then he too looked forth into it.
Upon the stones where the six attroupés had been flung down in their chains he saw those men standing now, free and unbound, in their hands naked weapons. The light of a newly lit flambeau flickering on one of their blades showed that it was deeply stained red. Also he saw that they too were now clad in scarlet and blue, their own rude mountain clothes discarded, flung in a heap in a corner.
And more he saw! Some were lying dead, or dying, in that courtyard; men who had but a few hours ago formed part of the garrison; the men whose clothes the others had already donned.
Like the lightning's flash there came to his mind what had happened; he understood all. The ruse was successful. The Camisards, disguised in the uniforms and trappings of the defeated soldiers of the day before, had surprised and captured the château; the trick of transporting those false prisoners had been a perfect one. Also he knew now where he had seen M. de Broglie's nephew. The deep powdered wig, the rich costume, served as disguises no longer. He recalled him! Recalled him as one who, young as he was, had taken a leading part in the massacre of the Abbé du Chaila, in the attack on Poul's convoy.
He understood, too, Urbaine's bitter words now. He was of these men's faith; she deemed him one of them! Also that he had brought her here only to betray her later into their hands. Bitter words that had sunk into his heart perhaps forever, yet she should see.
He drew his sword, advanced a step nearer to her, then retreated.
"I ask your pardon," he said, speaking very low, "that I have come near to you again. That I must address you. Yet, 'traitor' as I am, my place is still by your side. I interfered to save you yesterday. I must go on with what I have begun. One moment to warn the commandant--if--they have not slain him--then--then--mademoiselle--to save you from these men of my own faith."
But now she spoke no more, only--her eyes were fixed upon him with a strange look--he could have sworn that in the almost absolute darkness of the night which was upon them he saw her bosom heave pitiably. Then from her lips he heard beyond all doubt a gasp come.
"Fear not," he said, "they will not murder a woman. Can not, at least, murder you while I still live. Remain behind the door while I re-enter the room."
Whereon, leaving her, he pushed open the door and advanced within, his sword in his hand. As he did so he saw he had no chance; believed that he was doomed.
The room was full of men, of the mock soldiers--the Camisards disguised in the uniforms of De Broglie and of Hérault; doubtless they had entered by the main door while he had been in the passage. Also there were lights in it--two flambeaus placed in old sockets in the walls, and white-wax candles in a great lustre on the table.
In front of him was the "nephew of M. de Broglie," his powdered wig off now and his head showing a mass of long fair hair, while in his hand he too held his drawn sword. At the table, his face fallen forward upon it and his arms outstretched, was the old man, the commandant, done to death.
"You craven hound!" hissed Martin, and as he spoke his rapier darted full at the other. "You craven hound, you eat of that old man's dish, drink of his cup, and murder him! Defend yourself, assassin!"
And, forgetful of any wrong that this man's (his own) faith might have suffered at the hands of those of the commandant's creed, remembering only that he was a gentleman face to face with one whom in his heart he deemed the canaille, remembering, too, that he was a murderer, he lunged full at him.
"Malédiction!" the Camisard exclaimed, driven back by the skill of the other (skill acquired in many a cours d'escrime in Paris, and the fence school of the Guards at Kensington gravel-pits), and knowing too, himself, but little of sword play except the rough cut-and-thrust which he had practised in the mountains. "Malédiction! You shall pay dearly for this! Au sécours mes frères."
He called for succour none too soon. In another moment Martin's blade would have been through his breast. None too soon! Fortunately for him it was at hand. Like tigers rushing on their prey, half a dozen of the disguised Camisards hurled themselves upon Martin; two threw themselves on him behind, one knocked up his sword arm, two more secured him. He was disarmed, captured, at their mercy.
"Shall we knock him on the head or cut his throat, brother Cavalier?" one asked, while as he did so Martin knew that he stood before one of the two chiefs of the Cévenoles, a man whose name was a terror by now to all Languedoc, and, two centuries afterward, is still remembered.
"No," Jean Cavalier replied, "he is a bold man, of the tyrants' side though he be. Most of them will be ours now we have risen. We will spare him, for the present at least."
Then he turned to Martin, who stood there calm and contemptuous (remembering that the fellow before him had been a baker's apprentice a year or two back, as he had heard--the latter almost felt degraded at having his life spared by such a man as this), and said with an attempt at ease which he invariably adopted, and with, also, the fury he had shown gone:
"Monsieur, it is the fortune of war which puts you in our power. You must abide by it. What parish do you belong to?"
"None you ever heard of. One in the north of France. I am a stranger here."
"A stranger!" Cavalier repeated incredulously, "a stranger!" And as he did so Martin saw all the followers of the Camisards' chief gazing astonishedly at him. "A stranger! If so, what are you doing here? What have the affairs of this unhappy province to do with you? Also, why in this château?"
What answer Martin might have made to his questions, if any, was not given, since at this moment three of the men who had left the room returned, bringing with them Urbaine Ducaire. They had found her outside the door listening tremblingly to all that had happened within, rooted to the spot, almost insensible.
Yet now, as she advanced between those men, something had given her courage, had nerved her to strength. She trembled no more and, although very white and with still a strange gleam in her eyes, she walked erect; almost, to Martin observing her, it seemed defiantly. What, he wondered, had stung her to this courage? Perhaps the contempt that she too felt for her captors.
With a bow, Cavalier welcomed her, then asked:
"Have I the honour to stand face to face with the daughter of his Excellency the Intendant?"
"I am the adopted daughter of the Comte de Baville," she answered calmly. "When do you intend to slay me, as you have slain the others?" and her eyes stole to where the commandant's body lay stretched over the table.
For a moment Cavalier looked at her with a strange glance, surprised, perhaps, at her calmness; it may be, stung by her absolute indifference to his power. Then he said:
"Mademoiselle mistakes those whom she addresses. Doubtless, in these surroundings, thinks she has fallen into the hands of papists or those of similar faith. People who slay women burn them on the grandes places, belabour their bare backs. I would not be discourteous, yet mademoiselle will pardon me if I remind her that we are not of the same religion as herself, or monsieur by her side."
Or monsieur by her side! Unanswering her captor, scarcely regarding him, she stood there, a look impenetrable to Cavalier upon her face, yet with her mind full of wonderment.
Or monsieur by her side! They did not know then that he was one of them, in faith and belief at least--that--that----
"God!" she whispered to herself, still gazing beyond--through--the Camisard chief, yet with no thought of him in her mind. "God! what awful wrong have I done him again to-night, how misjudged him? To be by my side as a protection still, to share my fate, he does not avow himself a Protestant; consents to be deemed their enemy--a Catholic. And he is not a woman. There is naught to save him."
Even as she so thought her eyes stole round and rested on him standing there calmly near her side, avowing, denying nothing.
