PERSECUTED, YET NOT FORSAKEN.
"My father!" exclaimed the girls, and flew into his arms. The next
instant the bellowing recommenced.
"What is that?" cried M. Bourdinave, starting.
"One of the bulls intended for baiting," said my father.
"Ah, what a vicinity to find you in?" said M. Bourdinave.
"Better, my dear friend, than the captives of old had in this very
dungeon. And now, what news? Where have you been?"
"I'd better go; I'm not wanted." muttered La Croissette, heard only by
me, and then retiring.
"I bring the worst of news," returned M. Bourdinave, sitting down. "The
Edict of Nantes is revoked."
"Ah!" and a general cry broke from us.
"What signifies it," said my mother, bitterly, "when already its
provisions have been set at nought? Are we any the better for it?"
"We may be yet worse for losing it," said M. Bourdinave. "Every Reformed
meeting-house in France is to be demolished; no private assemblages for
devotional purposes are to be allowed on any pretext whatever. All
Huguenot schools are to be suppressed; all children born of Huguenot
parents to be baptized and educated as Catholics; all non-conforming
ministers to quit the country within fifteen days, on pain of the
galleys."
"Let us rise, my children," cried my father in great agitation, "and
leave this country, which is no longer a mother to us, shaking the dust
off our feet. Alas, what am I saying? Whither can we go?"
"To England," replied M. Bourdinave. "I have already taken measures for
it."
"Heaven be praised!" cried we simultaneously.
"But it will be under circumstances of great hardship, difficulty, and
danger."
"Never mind; we willingly encounter them. Yes, yes," said one after
another.
"Have you the courage, my daughters?" looking earnestly at them.
Madeleine threw herself into his arms.
"I knew what your answer would be," said he, fondly kissing her; "but
my little Gabrielle--"
"Oh, fear me not, father," cried Gabrielle, hastily. "Anything to get
out of this horrid place. I believe I have seemed too impatient of it
to those around me, but that was because inaction is always so trying
to me."
"My love, you may yet be exposed to it. I have known one of our brethren
put into a chest, with very few air-holes, and lowered into the hold of
a merchant-vessel, with considerable roughness, where he was left many
hours before he could be released."
Gabrielle changed color. "Never mind," said she, in a low voice, and
pressing her father's hand. "What man has done man may do, though I am
but a woman who say it."
"That's my brave girl!" fondly kissing her. "Well, my friends, if we
can but get to Bordeaux, we shall escape; that is provided for. It was
this which kept me from you so long. And what a return has been mine!
I got no answers from you to my letters; I heard the persecution here
was raging with fury; I came to snatch you from it, and found my home
deserted, the factory burnt, the workmen scattered, no tidings of you
to be found. At length I got news of you from one of the men, who told
me of your retreat, and that he, under cover of night, brought you
bread. We planned how to remove you hence to-night, but it must be in
detachments. At a place agreed on there will be a small cart that will
convey the children and perhaps their mother."
"I prefer walking," interposed my mother. "Jacques is unable to do so."
"Impossible! I am sure you have not the strength for it," said we all.
"Never fear," said she, stoutly.
"No, no; it must not be," said I.
"And you, my son?"
"I will undertake for him," said La Croissette, who, it now appeared,
had been listening behind the doorway all this time.
"Who are you, my man?" said M. Bourdinave, in surprise and some
distrust.
"An honest fellow, though I say it that shouldn't," was his answer.
"I am one of those who deal in deeds more than words. I cannot patter
Ave Marias with a Catholic, nor sing interminable psalms like a
Huguenot, but neither can I endure the ways the Catholics are taking to
compel the Huguenots to submission. I take my own way, d'ye see, and am
fettered by nobody. No one would molest La Croissette the needle-seller,
not even a dragoon. And I have learnt to esteem you all; I admire the
young ladies, and respect the old lady and gentleman. Therefore, there's
my hand; you may take it or not. 'Tis not over soft; but there's no
blood on it, and it never took a bribe. Let those say so who can.
And what I say next is this: Dr. Jameray has fallen sick, and I've
undertaken to drive his little wagon, with the sign of the bleeding
tooth, from hence to Montauban. As far as that I'll give my young friend
here a cast, and he may thence easily take boat down the Garonne to
Bordeaux. At least, if he cannot of himself, I'll manage it for him."
How grateful we were to the worthy La Croissette! Not one of us
distrusted him in the least; at any rate, if M. Bourdinave did so at
first, he was soon reassured by us, and took the honest fellow heartily
by the hand. A good deal more was now said than I have space to recount
or memory to recall. Indeed, my head was in a confused state, and I was
conscious of little but of the tender pressure of dear Madeleine's hand,
from whom I must so soon part.
We were to start as soon as night afforded us its friendly cover; but
some hours of daylight remained. My father and M. Bourdinave had many
business affairs to discuss, and Madeleine kept the children quiet,
that they might not interrupt them. I never thought Gabrielle so pretty
as now that she had spoken with resolution, and seemed strengthening
herself to keep up to it. Nevertheless, we have no real strength
of our own; it all comes from God; but He gives it to all who ask it
faithfully. Madeleine whispered to me, "Let us pray that strength for
her duty may be given her." I nodded and smiled.
Meanwhile my mother went out to the appointed place where, it seems,
Raoul had daily placed a loaf. We, who were not in the secret, had much
wondered where our bread came from, and how it lasted out. This time she
returned with a large sausage as well; so we ate our meal with gladness
and thankfulness of heart, La Croissette insisting on passing round his
bottle, which, somehow, he always kept well filled. And had this man had
a mind to betray us, how easily he might have done so! He overheard our
plans, might have drugged our wine, and stretched us all powerless;
might have told his comrades to make sport of us, and kept out of sight
himself; or might openly have led the dragoons to our hiding-place with
torches and weapons. Our blessed Lord had more reason, humanly speaking,
to trust Judas, than we to trust La Croissette; but you see this man was
honest; you could not have tempted him to sell us for thirty pieces of
silver.
When he went forth, though, after supper, my mind misgave me for a
while, thinking, "What if he be gone to betray us?" I wronged his worthy
heart. So many people are worse than we think them, that it is a comfort
when some prove better than we think them. Worthy La Croissette! I have
thy tall, meagre form and lantern jaws now before me. Many a showy
professor might be bettered by having as true a heart.
When he was gone, my father said, "Let us join once more in family
worship, and then get a little sleep before our night-journey begins."
I think he and M. Bourdinave and the children actually did sleep, but
not my mother or the girls. I certainly did not. My mother dressed and
bandaged my wounded feet for the last time. They were healing, but too
tender for walking or standing without injury to the newly-formed skin.
Then she sat beside me, with looks of love, and was presently joined
by Madeleine. We knew so well what was passing in each other's minds,
that we did not need to say much. Then my father awoke, with all his
faculties about him, looked at his watch, and said it was time to start.
M. Bourdinave went out, and after what seemed to our impatience rather a
long time, returned, and said Raoul reported unusual disturbance in the
city, but that now all was ready. We took leave of one another, agreed
on places of rendezvous (if we were ever enabled to reach them), and had
a valedictory prayer. Still they did not like to go and leave me without
La Croissette. At length he appeared, and, addressing my father, said:
"You had better avoid the precincts of your famous temple, La Calade: it
has been completely demolished, and crowds are yet hanging about their
beloved place of worship, regardless of danger, but the military will
presently disperse them."
"Ah, what desecration!" exclaimed my mother.
"Keep your regrets for the sufferings of living people, my good lady,"
said La Croissette. "Stones have no feeling, and are not prone to
revenge insult. 'Tis said, walls have ears. The walls of La Calade have,
at all events, a tongue; for on the summit of the ruins lies a stone
with these words on it, 'Lo, this is the house of God; this is the gate
of heaven!'"
Then addressing my father, he said. "The very fact of the public
attention being drawn to this point makes other parts of the city
comparatively deserted, and therefore favors your escape. Lose no time,
I advise you, in availing yourselves of it."
We exchanged our last embraces in tears, and they went forth, he
following them. I felt inexpressibly lonely and sad.
Just as I was beginning to get uneasy at his absence, and to think,
"What if he should never come back?" he returned.
"They are safely off now," said he, "and little know what peril they
have been in here. Another twelve hours, and they would all have been
taken. Now, then, let us bestir ourselves, young man. They call you
Jacques; but I shall call you Jean, after my younger brother."
Helped on by him, I hobbled along, though in pain. How chill, but how
fresh and pleasant, felt the open air! It seemed the breath of life to
me, and revived me like a potent medicine. There was a distant, sullen
murmur in the city, but around us all was still. Above us were bright
stars, but no moon.
At length we got among low dwellings, some of which had twinkling
lights. We entered a dark, narrow passage, smelling powerfully of fried
fish and onions. Some one from above said cautiously, "Who goes there?"
"La Croissette."
"Who else?"
"My brother Jean."
"Advance, brothers La Croissette."
We ascended a mean staircase and entered a room where we found a man and
woman standing beside a large basket.
"Now get you into this," said La Croissette to me, "and we will lower
you from the window. Stay, I will go first; it will give you
confidence."
Twisting his long frame into the basket, he clasped his arms round his
knees, and the others began to raise him by well-secured pulleys. The
woman grew quite red in the face with the exertion of getting him over
the window-ledge, and I own I trembled for him.
"All is right, he is safely down," said she, at length, and helped to
pull up the basket. "Now, young man; you're not afraid?"
"Oh no; only don't let me down too fast."
"That must depend on how heavy you are. We can't keep dangling you
between sky and earth all night. Come; you are not nearly as heavy as
your brother. Adieu, mon cher; bon voyage!"
"Adieu, madame; mille remerciments."
I thought of St. Paul in the basket, and the two Israelitish spies.
La Croissette eased my descent a good deal, by steadying the basket,
and helped me out of it to our mutual satisfaction. It was then swiftly
drawn up, and taken in.
"Thank heaven, we are safe!" said I. "That was very cleverly managed."
"Do you suppose it the first time?" said La Croissette. "Far from it, I
can tell you. Many things are done in Nismes that the authorities know
nothing of, for all their vigilance. Now we are fairly outside the city,
and, with ordinary good luck, shall perform our night-journey in safety."
"With God's blessing we may," said I.
"Make that proviso with all my heart," said La Croissette. "some trust
in Providence and some in luck. I have nothing to say against either.
Now get into the cart."
He led the horse a little out of the shadow as he spoke, and helped me
inside the little house on wheels, where I found a mattress that proved
a most acceptable rest; and then we drove slowly and quietly off, and
gradually got among fields and hedges.
"How are you getting on?" said La Croissette, at length. "Do you mind
the shaking?"
"Oh," said I, "I have so many things on my mind that I take no thought
for the body."
"All the better; though some say that pain of the mind is the worst to
bear of the two."
"I have little doubt of it," said I, "though each are bad enough. But
all I meant was that my mind is preoccupied and anxious, and prevents
my noticing any mere discomforts; for I cannot say I am miserable."
"Indeed I think you ought not to be, for you have had an escape from
that troubled city that many would rejoice at."
"Tell me truly; do you think I have actually escaped?"
"What know I? You have escaped from the evils behind; you may not
escape from the evils before. Yesterday was cloudy, to-morrow may be
rainy, the day after may be fine; none of us knows. At least there is a
weather-prophet at Arles whom some of the fools believe in; but he broke
his leg a little while ago, and his spirit of prophecy did not enable
him to foresee that, therefore I doubt his knowing about the weather."
"There have always been those who dealt in lying signs and wonders,"
said I, "from the days of Moses, when the magicians feigned to change
their rods into serpents, which of course they could not do really."
"They were clever at sleight-of-hand, I suppose," said La Croissette.
"So is Doctor Jameray. He can do many wonderful things. I can do some
of them myself. You see, some of his conjuring tricks require a second
person, who must not be known for his assistant; so that when he sets
out on his tours through the provinces, I generally do the same, and
contrive to cross his path, as if by accident. Then we play off on a
new set of people the tricks we have played twenty times before in
other places."
"Then needle-selling is only a blind?" said I.
"I turn a little money by it; the more, that I am careful always to sell
the best needles and pins. Thus I have acquired a name--the housewives
trust me; I have a character to support. And my character supports me."
"A good character always does so in the long run," said I.
"Well, I don't know what to say about that. You are too young to have
any authority of weight. It must be your father's wisdom, and I am not
sure it will stand the test."
"I feel sure of it," said I.
'What, when you are this very moment a houseless wanderer, without
having done any wrong? How does your good character support you now?"
"For example, it has secured me your good offices," said I. "You would
not have given me this good turn if I had been a worthless villain."
"Well, perhaps not; supposing I had known you for such--though worthless
villains often escape deserved punishment, and sometimes are very
plausible, and pay very well. And sometimes not"--reflectively.
"You seem to remember a case in point," said I, smiling.
"Well, I do," said La Croissette. "There was a young lord who led a sad
course, and nearly fell into the hands of justice. He had a dashing,
off-hand manner, that made friends till he was found out for what he
was; and partly because he talked me over, and partly for high pay,
I smuggled him beyond the reach of his enemies. But the pay never came.
He won't get me to help him another time."
"He'll miss the want of a good character in the long run, then," said I.
"Oh, he has done so already; he lies in prison now. But so do many of
you Huguenots, who have done nothing amiss. It seems to me there is one
event to the good and to the wicked."
"Oh no, do not believe it," said I. "In the first place, none of us
are righteous; no, not one; our merits only comparative. Thus, there is
something in every one of us to punish; and sometimes the Lord sees fit
to chasten His best-loved servants so severely, that it is difficult to
distinguish their chastisement from His judgments on the wicked."
"That comes to what I was saying," said La Croissette; "that there is
but one event to the good and to the bad."
"It seems so, though it is not so," said I. "But don't you perceive in
this a grand argument in favor of a future life?"
"I am no scholar, I;--you must explain it to me," said La Croissette.
"If the Lord lets his dear children fall into the same afflictions here
as the rebellious and impenitent, it is because He knows that in the
long run, it will be to their advantage rather than otherwise: that they
will turn their trials to such good account as actually to be the better
for them; and that their light affliction, which is but for a moment,
will work for them a far more exceeding and eternal weight of glory.
So that hereafter they shall look back on their present pains, not only
with indifference but with thankfulness. But ah! where shall then the
unrighteous and sinner appear?"
"You seem to have a natural gift for preaching," said La Croissette,
after a pause. "Where will they appear, say you? Why, if our priests
are to be believed, those of them, even the very worst, who have money
enough to pay for masses and indulgences, may buy themselves off from
purgatory, and shine in glory with the best."
"Does not that carry incredibility and absurdity on the very face of
it?"
"It seems very hard on the poor man who can't buy himself off," said La
Croissette. "You Huguenots, then, don't believe in it?"
"Most assuredly not. God accepts no prayers that do not spring from a
lowly and contrite heart: and they may be offered by a poor man as well
as a rich one."
"But does not a poor man's soul require those purgatorial fires?"
"Oh no, my dear La Croissette! The Son of God told of no purgatory--only
of heaven and hell. And He was so truthful that He would not have told
of a hell if there had not been one--nor have failed to tell of a
purgatory if there had been one. The end would not have been
commensurate with the means, had He laid down his life to save us from
anything short of condign punishment, or to save us only incompletely.
If there were a purgatory to endure at any rate, where would be the
all-sufficiency of his sacrifice once offered?"
He bade us believe in him and be saved. He did not say, 'believe also in
my mother, and my brethren, and my apostles, and ask them to ask me to
save you.' He said, 'Come unto me all ye that labor and are heavy laden,
and I will give you rest.'"
"No! did he, though?" said La Croissette, suddenly checking his horse.
At the same moment, a woman sprang from the hedge and laid her hand on
the shaft, saying:
"Good sir, save us! we perish!"
"What is the matter?" said he, starting.
"We are fugitives from Nismes; we were beaten, we were burnt, we were
pillaged."
"My poor good woman, there are numbers in like case."
"But we starve," said she, bursting into tears. "My aged mother and my
little ones."
"I am very sorry for you, but I am a poor man myself--here, take this
trifle."
"Alas, we cannot eat money!" in a tone of such mournful reproach.
"No, true; it will buy a little bread--but there are no shops. Jean," in
a lower voice to me, "I've a loaf in the cart, shall we part with it?"
"Give it to her by all means," said I.
Before he did so, he said to her, "True, you cannot eat money, but money
will buy you bread in Nismes. Why not return there? The authorities are
welcoming all that conform."
"Death rather than that!" said she, clasping her hands to her heart, and
turning away.
"Stay, stay. Here is bread for you. It is all we have."
"Ah! bless--." She could say no more, but sobbed bitterly. La Croissette
turned his face away.
"There are many of us, many!" sobbed she. "We shall so bless you. We
will pray for you."
"Do so; do," said he, affecting composure, and whipping on.