LES ARÈNES.
When we got back, we found my uncle Chambrun, my mother's only brother,
standing at the door. He was the minister of a small town near Avignon,
and did not care to go to the Fair; nevertheless he was very glad to
hear all about it from those who had been there. We were well pleased
to have so ready a listener; and when we had said our say, he fell into
grave talk with my father and mother of the signs of the times, which
he thought very threatening.
"What can we expect otherwise," said he, "with Louis the Fourteenth
for king and Louvois for his minister, and Père la Chaise for his
confessor, and Madame de Maintenon for his confidante and adviser?
A storm is gathering overhead, but never mind--there is a heaven higher
than all." These words checked us; but youthful spirits soon rise, and
the impression did not last long. I now seemed walking on air, for I
loved and was loved by Madeleine.
A few days after our return from Beaucaire, Marie Lefevre burst in on us
with troubled looks, and exclaimed,
"Have you seen my boy?"
"No!" exclaimed we all.
"Then something has befallen him," cried she, wringing her hands. "We
have lost sight of him."
We gathered about her, full of pity, and asked where he had last been
seen.
"Near Les Arènes."
"He may have fallen into some pit, or lost himself among the dungeons,"
said my mother. "We will go and help you to find him."
So she and I accompanied Marie, who was crying bitterly, and made
frequent inquiries for him by the way.
When we got inside that vast, circular inclosure, we agreed that Marie
should explore one side and we the other, and thus meet at the other
end. This took us some time, for you must know that it consists of two
stories, each of sixty arcades, seventy feet high; and under its great
arches and pillars are many vaulted chambers and passages, wherein good
Christians have been confined; and again, wherein other good Christians
have found asylums in time of hot persecution. Within the amphitheatre
were originally thirty-two rows of seats, which would accommodate at
least twenty thousand spectators that had a mind to feast their eyes on
scenes of blood in the central arena. I looked with curiosity at this
place, which I had never so thoroughly visited before. Some of the dens
were still in use for the bulls that were baited on Sundays, and others
seemed lairs for rogues and vagabonds; but there was many a corner
which, as I said to my mother, would afford a good hiding-place in time
of danger, and one, especially, in which I thought a fugitive might defy
detection (though _I_ had detected it).
Well, we hunted high and low, but could not find little Jules. His
mother was distracted: we feared she would lose her reason altogether.
Madeleine devoted herself to her like an angel; neighbors were full of
compassion--those of our own persuasion, I mean; for the Catholics
mocked her and said, "Go seek him in the Jews' quarter. The Jew baker's
daughter has, doubtless, made him into pies. Go seek him in their secret
assemblies--in their cellars--in their slaughter-houses--doubtless they
are fattening him for their Passover." Conceive the anguish of the
mother.
At length she found he was not dead. Her heart leaped for joy. But
when she found how the case stood with him, she was ready to wish
him dead and numbered among the little children that follow the Lamb
whithersoever he goeth. Jules had been kidnapped and tampered with by
the Catholics. The little apostate had been taught to curse his parents.
The case occasioned a great deal of talk in Nismes at the time;
unhappily, similar kidnappings made it soon forgotten, except by the
family.
One day, when I had been hunting for him, I came suddenly on the young
man who had stared so rudely at Gabrielle at Beaucaire. I was sorry to
see him in Nismes. I did not like the look of him, with his narrow head,
low forehead, and eyes too near his nose, though otherwise he was well
enough. Returning to our factory, I found him just coming out of it.
I said to my father, "Who is that?" He said, "A troublesome fellow,
I think, but he brought a message from your uncle Nicolas. He is called
Martin Prunevaux. He asked me all manner of impertinent questions, and,
if he fall in with you, may ask you as many; but remember Jaques Coeur's
motto,
"'En close bouche
N'entre mouche--'
"And again, 'Dire, faire, taire.'"
"Ay, ay, father, you may depend on me," said I, heartily.
Sometimes, before I went to bed, I stepped out to get a glimpse of the
light in Madeleine's window. I should observe, it was also Gabrielle's,
for the sisters shared the same room. The moon cast strong lights and
shadows, and I kept in the shade till close to the house, when what was
my disgust to hear the wretched tinkle of a guitar under the window!
Serenades might be all very well for Italy, but we did not favor them
in Nismes; and stepping briskly up to the musician, I said abruptly,
"We want none of this miserable noise!"
He started as if shot, saying, "Pardon, monsieur," evidently taking
me for one of the family; a mistake which I favored by knocking at the
door. As I was in deep shadow he did not recognize me, but the moonlight
fell full on his face, and I saw it was Martin Prunevaux. I felt
exceedingly inclined to fall on him and beat him for daring to tune his
wretched pipes under Madeleine's window; but a second thought assured me
that Gabrielle must be his object; the more so that I was sure I saw her
shadow (which was shorter than her sister's) fall on the curtain, and
I could even fancy her making merry behind it. Still, I liked not such a
fellow to come prowling about either of the sisters. I stood my ground,
that I might not be guilty of a runaway knock, and when Alice came to
the door I made a bungling speech and said, "Oh, I suppose the family
are all gone to bed. I am late tonight." She said, "They are so, sir,"
and looked surprised. I said, "There was a street musician of some sort
before the house when I came up. I think I have chased him away." She
said, "All the better, sir; we are much obliged to you; we never
encourage such people."
When I rallied Madeleine, next day, on having been serenaded, tears
sprang into her eyes, and she assured me it was not her fault, adding
that she feared Gabrielle, in her thoughtlessness, must have given some
encouragement to a presumptuous young man. "However, when my father
returns, he will take measures," she added, "to prevent our being
further troubled with him." Monsieur Bourdinave was at this time
traveling on business.
The sisters spent that evening at our house as was not unusual. On these
occasions we often sang hymns; and I had just set the tune of "Chantez
de Dieu le renom"--
"Chantez de Dieu le renom,
Vous serviteurs du Seigneur!
Venez pour lui faire honneur,
Vous qui avez eu ce don"--
and was lifting up my voice on high, followed by the sweet treble of the
girls, when a shower of stones rattled against the casement, and a flint
passed close to Madeleine and hit my father on the cheekbone. Hot with
anger, I rushed into the street, and found a group of unmannerly fellows
outside, who, instead of taking to their heels, gathered round me with
defiant looks.
"What is the meaning of this?" cried I in anger.
"What is the meaning of your disturbing the neighborhood with your
uproar?" cried one of them, saucily.
"Uproar! We were singing to the praise and glory of God. Do you know
that you have hurt my father?"
"We neither know nor care; and if you don't keep a quiet tongue in your
head, will slit it as soon as not."
"Come in, son, come in," said my father, whose cheek was covered with
blood. "As much as lieth in you, live peaceably with all men"--drawing
me indoors as he spoke.
"Excellent advice! Take care that he follows it," cried they,
tauntingly, as my father shut-to the door. I was burning with rage;
Madeleine was in tears; the children, with scared looks, were gathered
round my mother. My father, with gentle force, drew me into the little
circle, and made me sit down beside him.
"My children," said he, "we have been warned that evil times are coming,
and this may be the beginning. If it prove otherwise, we shall have the
more reason to praise the Lord; but if it please Him to try and to prove
us, let us not be found unprepared. Our strength lies in prayer, in not
giving offence, and in not being easily offended."
"We gave no offence, father," said I.
"But you were too easily offended. If any one had cause of complaint, it
was I; but I do not take it up."
My mother was meanwhile bathing his cut cheek and applying a plaster.
"Sure, it would make any son's blood boil, to see his father hit!" cried
I; and I saw that Madeleine sympathized with me.
"Why, then, let his blood cool again," said my father, jocularly. "Tush,
many a school-boy gets a worse hurt than this, and makes no moan. There!
your mother has made all right, and I feel no smart. Let us say no more
about it."
I thought he strikingly acted on our Lord's axiom of "If thine enemy
smite thee on the one cheek, offer him the other," but could not just
then enter into it. I longed to give those rascals a good beating.
"Now, then, I'll set the tune again," said I, affecting composure.
But, "No, no," said the girls simultaneously; and "No, no," said my dear
mother. "Don't you see," she continued, "I have all this broken glass to
pick up? If you will do me a real kindness, you will step round to the
glazier, the first thing in the morning, and get him to mend the window
before breakfast."
"I'll go at once," said I; but "No, no," was again the word. My father
laid his hand firmly on my right arm, and Madeleine hers on my left.
Though her touch was as light as a snow-flake, I would not have shaken
it off for the world.
"The streets are unquiet to-night," said my father, "and I mean no one
to go forth till the girls return home, when we will see them safely to
their door; going out the back way."
So we spent the next hour in a sober, subdued manner. Madeleine shyly
let me steal her hand and hold it some minutes, as though she knew it
would calm me. And so it did; there was much sweetness in that hour,
after all.
At length it was time to see them home; my mother kissed and blessed
them as if they were going further than into the next street. We went
out the back way, my father taking Gabrielle and I Madeleine, and we met
with no evil by the way. Being rather high-wrought, I would willingly
have faced a little danger for Madeleine's sake.
I kissed her soft cheek unrebuked, and followed my father through the
dark with a happy heart Mechanically, rather than from either devotion
or defiance, I began to hum "Chantez de Dieu," when my father's warning
hand plucked my sleeve, and, at the same instant, a rough voice beside
me said, "Hold your peace! Have you not heard of the _arrêt?_" and
passed on.
We had heard nothing of any _arrêt_; but next morning, when I went
to the glazier's, he told me that an order had been issued forbidding
the Reformed to sing psalms in the streets and public walks, or even
within their own houses loud enough to be heard outside. And he told
me he was so full of work that he hardly knew which way to turn, in
consequence of the many windows broken over night by evil-disposed men
suborned to interrupt psalmody. I asked him, half jesting, if he thought
any of the suborned men were glaziers; but it hurt him, for he was as
good a Huguenot as any in Nismes.
Going home with him, I saw a horrid sight--a dead body that had been
some time buried, torn from the grave, stripped of its shroud, and lying
in the gutter. I shuddered, and asked the glazier if we had not better
tell the authorities; but he hurried on, saying, "Better let it be. The
authorities doubtless know all about it." So there had we to leave the
ghastly object, though its remaining there was equally prejudicial to
decency and to health.
Men's tongues were very busy that day; every one foreboding calamity and
nobody knowing how to meet it.
My mother sent me, after breakfast, to visit my uncle Chambrun, who had
fallen sick; and as the distance was about seven leagues, I went to him
on a small but active horse. On my arrival, I found him in bed, with a
royal commissioner seated beside him, who was talking to him with great
show of courtesy, while my uncle looked much wearied. The bishop of
Valence was on the other side of his bed. Finding myself in such high
company, I fell back, and awaited a better opportunity of presenting
myself.
The commissioner was inquiring very sedulously after my uncle's health,
and assuring him he respected him greatly, and wished to show him favor.
"We have been constrained," said he, "to subject several of your
colleagues to temporary confinement, but I have great hope that nothing
of the kind will be necessary in your case, if you are a man of wisdom
who know how to comply with exigencies as they arise, and thereby set an
example to those around you. To this end the bishop has come to put a
few easy interrogations. It is a mere form, and I am sure you will make
no difficulty."
My uncle thanked him for his kind expressions, but said he had a Master
in heaven to whom he owed his first duty.
"So have we all," interposed the bishop. And that he should make answer
with that end in view and nothing else.
The bishop then took up the word, and very little can I remember of what
he said, so hampered was I by his presence; but it was plain that he
sought to entangle my uncle in his talk. That was no easy thing to do,
my uncle was so temperate and logical, and so much more conversant with
the Holy Scriptures than the bishop was.
The commissioner, perceiving that the bishop was getting the worst of
it, broke in with--
"All this is beside the mark. The king is determined that you, Monsieur
Chambrun, should be a good Catholic; so it is no good begging off. You
had much better accept the good offer made you, which I trust you will
do on thinking it over."
"The only offer I desire," replied my uncle, "is of a passport, to
enable me, as soon as I am well enough, to follow my brother ministers
to Holland. My reason tells me--"
"A truce with your reason," interrupted the bishop, rising to go away.
"You have too much rhetoric by half. I advise you to reflect and to
obey."
"Monseigneur, I am sure you think you are giving me the best advice,"
said my uncle, feebly. "Nephew, see the noble and reverend gentlemen
out."