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.