BECAUSE OF CONSCIENCE
BY AMY E. BLANCHARD
AN INDEPENDENT DAUGHTER
THREE PRETTY MAIDS
MISS VANITY
HER VERY BEST
_12mo. Cloth, illustrated, $1.25
per volume_
TWO GIRLS
GIRLS TOGETHER
BETTY OF WYE
_12mo. Cloth, illustrated, $1.00
per volume_
TWENTY LITTLE MAIDENS
Illustrated by IDA WAUGH
_Small 4to. $1.25_
[Illustration: “Because you have shown me how powerful a shield a woman
can be, I stand here”
Page 104]
Because of Conscience
_Being a_ NOVEL _relating to the_ ADVENTURES
_of certain_ HUGUENOTS _in_ OLD NEW YORK
By
_Amy E. Blanchard_
Author of “Her Very Best,” “Betty of Wye,”
“Two Girls,” “Girls Together,”
“Three Pretty Maids,”
etc.
_With Frontispiece by_
E. Benson Kennedy
[Illustration]
Philadelphia & London
J. B. Lippincott Company
1901
_Copyright, 1901
By J. B. Lippincott Company_
_Electrotyped and Printed by
J. B. Lippincott Company, Philadelphia, U. S. A._
DEDICATED
WITH DEEP AFFECTION AND PROFOUND ADMIRATION
TO
ELIZA ELVIRA KENYON
WHOSE LOVING INTEREST AND LOFTY EXAMPLE
HAVE BEEN MY STAY FOR
MANY YEARS
A. E. B.
CONTENTS
[Illustration]
CHAPTER PAGE
I. A WILD MARIGOLD 11
II. THE FEAST OF THE FAT CALF 34
III. THE WAY TO CHURCH 48
IV. THE CIDER FROLIC 64
V. FROM THE SNARE OF THE FOWLER 81
VI. FOR LIFE OR DEATH 98
VII. WHITHER THOU GOEST 114
VIII. PLOT AND COUNTER-PLOT 131
IX. THREE PARTINGS 151
X. ON SHIPBOARD 165
XI. FROM SHIP TO SHORE 177
XII. GENERAL JACQUES 195
XIII. A DAUGHTER OF THE WOODS 215
XIV. PIERRE, THE ENGAGÉ 229
XV. MADAM, MY MOTHER 247
XVI. ONE NIGHT IN MAY 265
XVII. FORGIVENESS 282
XVIII. PAPA LOUIS TELLS A STORY 300
XIX. THE MARK OF THE RED FEATHER 316
XX. MATHILDE’S TABLEAUX 336
BECAUSE OF CONSCIENCE
[Illustration]
CHAPTER I
A WILD MARIGOLD
Nothing in the world smelled so sweet as fresh sun-dried linen, thought
Alaine as she watched Michelle heaping the white pile upon her strong
arms; unless, indeed, Alaine reflected a moment later, it be a loaf
baking in the oven, yet even that did not suggest odorous grass and
winds laden with the fragrance of hedge and wood. She lay in the long
grass, chin in hands, her brown eyes wandering over the low-growing
objects which her position brought easily within her vision. “Now I
know what it is to be a creature like Fifi; no wonder he is forever
running after the impossible, as it seems to me, for I, gigantically
lifted above him, cannot see the objects on a level with his sharp
eyes.” She watched her dog darting among the stubble at the edge of
the field, and as she idly viewed his gambols her eyes caught sight
of a yellow flower growing near the hedge. She lifted her little head
with its toss of brown hair, then drew her slender, lithe body from
its covert to stand erect and to walk slowly across the open space to
gather the wild marigold, at which she gazed thoughtfully, standing so
still that her shadow scarcely wavered.
The sudden sharp bark of her little dog roused her, and she turned her
head to see some one coming toward her,--a young man swinging along
with an easy, confident tread.
“Good-evening, my cousin,” he cried. “You were so deep in thought that
I fancied I should not move you till I came near enough to touch you.
What are you studying so intently?”
“This.” Alaine held out her yellow blossom. “Tell me, Étienne, does it
turn always to the sun, this yellow marigold?”
“Who told you so?”
“Michelle, and she says it was chosen as her device by Margaret of
Valois because it does truly resemble the sun. It is likewise the
emblem of the Protestants, who say that it signifies that they ever
turn to the true source of light,--God in his heaven. Was Margaret of
Valois Protestant, Étienne, and----”
“Is Michelle, then, Protestant?” Étienne interrupted her by asking.
“Yes, I think so. I know so. She has a little Bible, Étienne, which
she guards sacredly, and she makes long journeys at night to secret
meetings, I fancy. She is very good and devout, Étienne, but still----”
“Still you can cry, ‘À bas les Huguenots!’ is it not so? She would
make you Protestant, my cousin, would she not?”
Alaine looked up at him gravely from under her long lashes. She
wondered how much she dared tell to this cousin to whose opinions she
had deferred ever since she could remember.
“Would she not?” he repeated, smiling as he took the flower, with
rather too rough a hand, Alaine thought. “Can you say with true spirit,
‘À bas les Huguenots’?” He spoke the words so fiercely that Alaine
looked half alarmed, at which he laughed. “There, my cousin,” he
continued, “you are too young to be troubled by these questions, and
your father is too good a Catholic to let you stray from the fold.”
“But I do not wish to be done with questions. I wish to know about
everything, and I mean to ask my father this very night when he returns
from Paris. He will tell me, if you will not. I know he will. You are
very provoking, Étienne, to treat my questions so,” she pouted. “Give
me my flower; I want to wear it.”
“What if I want to wear it?”
“Ah, Étienne, are you, then, a Huguenot?”
“That is nothing to you,” he returned. “I am simply your cousin,
Étienne Villeneau. Better trust me, Alainette; I know more than
Michelle there; in fact, it is an amusement of mine to follow up all
sources of information that will in any way benefit the house of
Villeneau, and I will pass over to you anything in the matter of news
which may be good for you.”
“Which may be good for me! As if news were like doses of medicine. I
will take your news or not, as I like.”
“You will take it whether you like it or not,” he returned, looking at
her for a moment with narrowed eyes. “If your father does not return
from Paris you will be glad enough to run to me for knowledge of him.”
“Étienne, how can you? My father will return from Paris; he said he
would, and he speaks truly at all times.”
“Too truly for once, it is reported. Au revoir, my cousin; when you are
ready to hear what I have to tell send me word.” And he turned on his
heel.
“You are hateful! a beast, a monster!” Alaine cried after him. “I hate
you.”
“I have heard that before,” the young man replied over his shoulder,
“and the next day you have told me the opposite.”
“It will not be the next day this time, nor for many days that you hear
it,” Alaine retorted. “And you have not given me back my flower. Thief!
Robber!”
He tossed the flower on the ground, then, as if urged by an angry
impulse, he stopped and ground it with his heel, but immediately after
he turned, laughing: “That for your naughtiness, fierce little cousin.
Adieu.”
“Go!” she cried. “I am glad to see your wicked body disappear.” Then,
half in tears, she ran to Michelle, who had returned from bearing her
burden into the house and was now picking up the remaining articles
left on the grass to bleach. “Michelle! Michelle!” cried the girl,
“that detestable cousin of mine has been teasing me, and has crushed
the life out of the little yellow marigold I meant for you. Is he not
a beast, Michelle? and how dares he say that there is any doubt of my
father’s return?”
“He says that?” exclaimed Michelle, looking startled.
“He did not say just that, but only if my father should not return that
I would be glad to run to him for news of him. He will return; say so
at once, Michelle.” She shook the good woman’s arm impatiently.
“God grant he returns,” murmured Michelle, gravely. “And your cousin,
what further did he say?”
“Very little, except to ask if you were trying to make me Protestant.
You would like to have me one, you know, Michelle, but my tender flesh
shrinks from the horrors of which you tell me, and that have been going
on since before I was born. I have no wish to be dragged through the
streets, to be beaten or burned or foully abused in any way, and I do
not see how you can be happy with such a possibility hanging over you,
Michelle.”
“Listen to the poor little one,” said Michelle to herself. “She little
knows of the real terrors that threaten us. And your cousin Étienne,
did you tell him I was Protestant?”
“I believe I did, but no doubt he knew it before; and what matters it
anyhow to one of the family to whom you have always been so good? Many
a scrape have you helped my cousin out of. He would defend you to the
last, and so would I, Michelle, Catholic as I am.”
Michelle made no answer. She stood still with her arms clasped around
the web of homespun linen which had been bleaching on the grass. Her
eyes wandered over the fair fields to the spires of Rouen in the
distance, and then to the chateau closer at hand, showing dimly gray
through the trees. She shook her head, but turned with a smile to the
girl at her side. “Come in, my Alainette,” she said; “it grows late and
I have a loaf in the oven. There is no need to be angered by the words
of your cousin, he did but tease; and should your father not return
to-night, there is no doubt some good reason for his staying.” And
Alaine, accustomed as she had been from babyhood to accept Michelle’s
adjustments of her difficulties, forgot her late quarrel with her
cousin and ran on ahead to satisfy her youthful appetite with the fresh
sweet loaf that no one knew better than Michelle how to bake.
The days were over when the Huguenots were an influence, or were at
all formidable in politics. They pursued amiably and tranquilly their
various avocations. The massacre of St. Bartholomew had occurred over
a century before; La Rochelle had fallen more than half a century
back, and Protestant subjects were so faithful in their allegiance to
the throne that even the reigning sovereign, Louis XIV., acknowledged
that his Huguenot servitors had proved their devotion; he had,
moreover, promised that the provisions of the Edict of Nantes should be
faithfully maintained, yet at this very time a decree was issued fixing
the age of seven as that when children were to be allowed to declare
their religious preferences, and forbidding parents to send their
children out of the country to be educated. In consequence, it was a
common thing for children to be enticed from their parents to be placed
in the hands of the clergy, or to be persuaded by rewards or coerced
by threats to attend mass, and then to be claimed by the Church. One
by one the Protestant seats of learning were suppressed, and the
consternation of the Huguenots was great.
Beyond this the system of dragonnades had done much toward terrorizing
and impoverishing the Protestants, so that again numbers were fleeing
the country through every possible means. The times were ripe for the
Revocation of the Edict of Nantes.
Of all these things Alaine Hervieu was passingly aware. The horizon of
her little world was bounded by Rouen, beyond whose borders she dwelt,
spending a quiet and joyous existence with Michelle, her foster-mother
and her chief guardian: Michelle with her fund of reminiscences,
too often those thrilling and horrifying tales of massacres and
persecutions. When Michelle waxed too fierce and terrifying Alaine
would fly to her father for diversion, but, to her credit be it said,
she never laid the cause of her frights upon her nurse, but rather
complained of loneliness and begged that dear papa would tell her tales
of his boyhood; of her sainted mother she was quite ready to hear, but
of other saints she heard more than enough from Father Bisset, she
declared. Something rousing and merry she preferred; and her father,
taking her on his knee, would tell her of the Fête des Rois, and
would show her the basket of wax fruit won upon one of those festive
occasions. Or he would sing her some old song, such as
“Gloria patri ma mere a petri
Elle a faict une gallette,
Houppegay, Houppegay, j’ay bu du cidre Alotel.”
And he would tell her of the time when the Boise of St. Nicaise was
dragged away and burned by the young men of St. Godard.
Alaine herself had more than once been taken to the Fête St. Anne
to see, running about the streets, the boys dressed as angels and
the girls as Virgins, and at Easter Eve she had watched the children
when they mocked and hooted at the now scorned herring while the boys
pitched barrels and fish-barrows into the river.
But of late it was of other things he told her; of brave resistance
by those who fought for freedom of thought; of the loss of position by
those who refused to conform to the requirements of state and church;
and sometimes he would sing to her in a low voice, from a small book,
some of those psalms which Michelle, too, sang.
Alaine once showed the little old book with its silver clasps to her
cousin Étienne. “I remember it well,” he told her; “it belonged to
our great-grandfather, for in his day the Psalms of David were held
in great esteem by the ladies and gentlemen of the court, and once on
a time in the heart of Paris, on the favorite promenade, five or six
thousand, including the king and queen of Navarre, joined in singing
psalms.”
“It must have been fine. I wish I had been there,” Alaine exclaimed,
clapping her hands. “Go on, Étienne, what more about the book?”
“It is a seditious thing now,” he returned, turning to the copy of the
Hervieu coat of arms on the inside cover. “If we were as zealous as
we should be we would burn it, for if it were discovered here trouble
might come of it. Let us make a fire of the heretical thing, Alaine.”
“No, no.” Alaine clasped it to her breast. “I like it, Étienne. It is
a family relic. I will keep it safely hidden, and no one shall know of
it.”
She did keep it safely hidden, and her father never once asked for it,
because another book had taken its place; one over which he pored for
hours at a time, and which Alaine knew to be a Bible. Was her father
turning Protestant? she asked herself.
Within the last few months it was Alaine who tried to divert her
father, for often there was a cloud upon his brow, and he was
frequently grave and taciturn, so that his daughter tried to set him
laughing when she could, and when she could not would take refuge with
her cousin Étienne, who lived but a short distance away. He was her
elder by ten years, but a good companion for all that, with whom Alaine
quarrelled once a day upon an average, and upon whom she penitently
used her blandishments when next they met.
She, therefore, was quite ready for Étienne when he appeared upon the
terrace the next morning after her latest quarrel with him. “Papa did
not come, Étienne,” she cried, jumping up to meet him, “but Michelle
says it is nothing; men are often detained so. Come, sit here and tell
me what you have done, and how is my aunt; also, if you have that piece
of news you offered me yesterday.”
“Am I a thief and robber, then? A monster and a beast?” he asked,
sitting down beside her.
“No, you are not; it was yesterday you were those things, and this is
to-day.”
“Child!” he exclaimed, “but a woman-child for all. Alainette, would you
turn Protestant if your father were one?”
“There, now, you said we were done with that question.”
“It was you who urged it upon me, and who became angry with me because
I put you off.”
“Again that was yesterday, and this is to-day, as I told you.”
“Nevertheless, I put the question again.”
“Oh, I don’t know. What would you do if you were I, Étienne?”
“I should do as my conscience and my Church bade me, rather than obey
my father.” He looked at her again with those narrowed eyes, the
expression of which Alaine was beginning to dread.
“Thank you for your advice, sir. My father is not likely to command me
to do anything wrong; and even if he did----”
“Even if he did,” repeated her cousin, “you would be taken to a convent
and be separated from him, as you well know. There would be one way out
of it, Alaine.”
“And that?” She looked up at him with all the confidence of her youth
shining in her piquant little face.
“Would be to marry me,” he said, slowly.
The blood rushed to the girl’s face and she sprang to her feet. “How
dare you say such a thing, Étienne? It is for your mother and my father
to arrange a matter like that. Besides,”--she burst into a sob,--“I--I
don’t want to be married. I don’t want to go to a convent either. Why
do you come here troubling me with such dreadful things, Étienne? I
hate you for it.”
He caught her hands and looked down closely into her dark eyes. “No you
don’t; you love me for it.”
“I do not! I do not!” she cried, passionately. “I detest you. Monster,
beast! Monster, beast! Hear me, I say it again and again. I hate you,
hate you, hate you!” And having wrested one hand from his grasp, she
gave him a stinging blow on the ear.
He loosed his grasp of her and pushed her from him. “You shall pay me
for that,” he said, his breath coming quickly, as he sprang to his feet.
Alaine, frightened at what she had done, shrank from him. “I--I never
did so before, did I, Étienne? I--I was so surprised, you see.” She
made a faint attempt to smile, but there was no response from her
cousin. She remembered vaguely that she had once or twice before seen
him thus angry, and she also remembered that her aunt had told her that
Étienne was very vindictive. “It would not be proper for me to say that
I would marry you, Étienne,” she said, wistfully. “You know we must not
think of such things; Michelle says we must not, and Mother Angelique
says that it is very wrong. It really would not be proper for me to
tell you that I would marry you.”
“You shall tell no one else,” he said, fiercely, “and you will have to
do it soon or----”
“Or what?” She crept closer to him and laid her hand on his arm.
He looked down at her, the resentment in his face fading into something
like compassion. “Listen, Alaine; your father will not come back
to-day; one cannot say that he ever will. He has announced himself a
Huguenot, and has disappeared, we know not where.”
Alaine fixed her great eyes on him. Suddenly she dropped her childish
coaxing tone. “Are you telling me the truth, Étienne? I am--yes, I am
nearly a woman. A girl of fifteen has a right to decide for herself as
you say. Tell me, are you merely teasing me, or is this the truth?”
“It is the truth, and at any moment this place may be given over to the
dragonnades. Will you stay? If you do not come to us your case will be
pitiable, indeed. I have not said anything as yet to my mother, for you
know her state of health, but you will be safe with us, Alaine.”
“And Michelle, she must go too.”
“No, she must not. She is Protestant, and must take the risks with
those she has chosen.”
“Étienne! and after all these years that you have known her, and when
she has done you more than one good service.”
“We cannot remember anything but that she is an enemy of the Church.”
“You have said that if my father commanded I must not obey, therefore
I will learn his commands, if I can. You would not desire to marry a
Huguenot, Étienne.”
“That need not disturb you just now; the main thing is your safety.”
“And if I refuse to leave Michelle?”
“You know the consequences.”
“Do you think, then, that Father Bisset will not speak for me? Have I
ever neglected my religious duties? And the Mother Angelique, will she
not answer for me?”
“Once you go to them you will find closer bonds than those with which I
would bind you.”
“But they love me.”
“Because they love you they would keep you. It has been weeks since
you saw Mother Angelique, and as for Father Bisset, how long since you
have had a call from him? At this moment he is on his way to Holland,
unless, indeed, he has been overtaken, the poor miserable apostate.”
“How do you know? How do you know?”
“I am neither deaf nor blind. I see what is before me and I hear what
is told me.”
“It is the Revocation which is doing all this,” cried Alaine. “Michelle
told me so. Dear Father Bisset! Would he had told me he was going and
had given me his blessing before he fled! I hope he will escape in
safety.”
“I hope he will not,” returned Étienne, savagely.
Alaine turned and looked at him, then paced up and down the walk,
her hands folded against her breast, her eyes bent upon the ground.
Her brain was in a whirl, but by degrees she collected herself
sufficiently to say, “Étienne, my cousin, I am but a young and not
overwise girl, and I cannot decide this thing while you are here to
disconcert me. Leave me to-day, and do not come near me till I have
thought this over. You have thrust a hard alternative upon me, but I
see that I must meet it. I will believe that you intend the best for
me, but I must have time to think. To-morrow I will tell you what I
will do. It is good of you to allow me the privilege of choosing my own
way, for I can see that it might be otherwise; that, in the absence
of my father, you and my aunt have the right to exercise a control,
or that you might at once report me to the authorities, who would not
hesitate to send me whither they would. I am safe here, in my own home,
till to-morrow you think?”
“Yes, I am sure you are.”
“Then, leave me, please. Give my duty to my aunt and thank you,
Étienne.” She looked up into his face as if searching for something she
did not find. “Étienne, you forgive me for what I did yesterday? I was
very rude. You do not bear resentment against me for it?”
The look she dreaded came into his eyes. “Would I wish to marry you if
I did?” he returned, but without a smile.
She let him go, not adding another word; and when he was beyond
hearing she sank again upon the bench where they two had sat together.
Marriage with Étienne; she had never thought of it, and suddenly she
realized that her whole nature shrank from it. She dropped her face
in her hands, for a moment sitting very still, then, with a swift
determination, she ran to find her nurse.
“Michelle, Michelle,” she cried, taking the good woman’s comforting
arms and folding them around herself, “I am sorely pressed. Tell me
what to do. My father, did you know? he is Protestant. Étienne has just
told me of his admission, and that he has disappeared, he could not
tell where. Oh, Michelle, what shall I do? What shall I do? I am afraid
of Étienne, I am afraid.”
The mother look on Michelle’s broad face deepened into one of anxiety.
“My lamb! My lamb!” she murmured. “An hour of great distress is at
hand. Yes, I know. I have known for some time, but for your sake, my
pretty one, your father has not declared his convictions for fear you
would be stolen from him.”
“And now! Ah, Michelle!” She then told of her cousin Étienne’s proposal
and her own distress. “Ah, that I knew my father’s desires!” she cried.
“Shall I ever see him again? If I thought I could find him I would hie
me forth this very night.”
“And forsake all else?”
“Yes, yes.”
“You would be willing to become a refugee for his sake? You would give
up the protection and comfort you would find in your aunt’s home to
become a wanderer? You would give up your Church?”
“Yes, and more, if it gave me a chance to again be united to my father;
a thousand times yes. Those whom I love best upon earth, whom from
childhood I have been accustomed to obey, have become Protestants, why
should an ignorant girl dare to say they are not right? My father, you,
and Father Bisset, have you not all been my teachers and guardians?
Shall I forsake you now?”
“My infant! My child of the good heart!” cried Michelle, weeping
copiously. “I am the one to lead you forth from your own country, and I
cannot hesitate.” She thrust her hand under the kerchief folded across
her bosom and drew forth a paper. “Read,” she said, holding it out to
the girl.
“From my father!” cried Alaine. “What does he say?” She took the letter
and read rapidly. “He sees danger ahead; he does not know how it will
result. Some one has contrived to undermine him when he felt safe,
and he may have to make an effort to escape to England or to Holland.
Listen, Michelle: ‘Should my daughter desire to remain in France, or
should she declare herself unable to accept my belief, do not urge her,
but allow her to remain with her relations, and bear to her my love
and last blessing. But should she wish to join me in London, Christian
friends at the French church on Threadneedle Street will be able to
give her word of me if I succeed in making my escape. We can no longer,
my good Michelle, expect tolerance, now that the Edict of Nantes has
been revoked, and for your own sake I would advise you to leave the
country. But my little daughter, should you desert her, where will her
comfort be?’
“Ah, Michelle,” the tears rained down Alaine’s cheeks, “let us go. Take
me with you, dear Michelle. I shall not care to live without you and
papa. Take me; let us go.”
“My dear little one, have you thought well upon it? The way is full of
danger. Are you willing to share the lot of a poor Huguenot? Can you be
content in poverty and in a strange land?”
“Yes, yes, no matter what comes, I am willing to face it. Teach me my
father’s belief, Michelle, so that he may know that we are one in all
things.”
“We shall have to start before to-morrow dawns,” said Michelle, after a
moment’s thought.
“So much the better, for I promised my cousin that he should have my
answer to-morrow. He will find it here. We must not let the servants
know. We will say that we go to the city to join my father.”
“Say nothing, but come to my room after dark this night. I have thought
of little else this day. I was up betimes, for the letter came to me by
the hand of a friend last night, and I did but wait for a proper time
to reveal its contents to you. Your father foresaw this days ago. He
told me where I should find money. I have sewed it into the hem of my
petticoat. You will be disguised as a boy. I have the clothes ready.”
“Where did you get them?”
“From my sister. They belonged to her son. We will set out before dawn
and carry eggs to market.”
“We will stand in no danger of being intercepted?”
“I think not. Go now, my pretty one, and try to be as like yourself as
possible. In these days one does not know who may be friend or foe. I
have prepared a chest, which I shall send out during the day by one of
my own faith. He will carry it safely to Dieppe for us, and we shall
not need to leave all behind.”
“Poor little Fifi, I shall have to leave him. Jean will be good to him
I hope.” She turned away sadly as a realizing sense of what she must
forsake came over her.
It was a long, weary day for the girl, who occupied herself feverishly
in such ways as would seem most usual to the servants. “Never again
will I see my home,” she said over and over again. Over an unknown
way to an unknown land, the thought would now and again terrify her,
but her heart leaped as she thought of her father, and more than once
Michelle heard her clear young voice singing an old madrigal. “Child of
the good heart,” she would sigh, “she little knows of what is before
her. It is but the strange journey to a strange land of which she
thinks, the poor little one.”
The house was very still when Alaine crept from her room and presented
herself before the door of Michelle’s chamber. The housekeeper’s room
was not far from her own, for Michelle was something more than servant
and scarcely less than one of the family. “Are you ready, Michelle?”
came Alaine’s whisper.
The door opened cautiously and she went in. “Can I help you?” she
asked. “We are to be comrades from now henceforth, Michelle; let us
not stand upon ceremony,” she added, sweetly, as she saw her companion
hesitated to ask a service.
“If you will help me, dear child, to roll my Bible into my hair. I must
carry it so lest it be discovered. It will not show?”
“Not at all.” Alaine viewed the arrangement critically. “What have I to
do?”
“First I must crop your abundance of brown locks. A boy has not such a
crop of hair.” And she relentlessly clipped the shining tresses, which
slipped to the ground in soft coils. Alaine laughed to see herself, at
last, clad in the blouse of a peasant lad, a cap set upon her short
curls, her slender hands stained and even scratched. “They will then
look more in keeping with my character,” the girl said, gayly.
Then out into the night they slipped; Michelle with basket on arm,
Alaine with one hand inside her blouse clasping tightly the small Beza
psalm-book; from henceforth it would mean more than a family relic. One
last look at the gray walls of her home looming up darkly against the
starry sky, and Alaine whispered, “Forever! forever!” then she followed
Michelle down the dusty road to where Rouen lay sleeping by the river
Seine.
The streets of the city when the fugitives reached it were full of
armed men, who rode about the town changing place as soon as they had
compelled those upon whom they were quartered to sign their act of
conformation. They seemed to be everywhere, and Alaine shrank closer to
Michelle as she noted the haughty, overbearing look of the soldiers.
“Be of good heart, little one,” Michelle whispered. “Remember you are
no longer Alaine Hervieu, but Jacques Assire, my son, and we live in
the direction of Dieppe; we return to our home when we have sold our
eggs. Name of Grace! but one sees a woebegone set of countenances here;
it is pitiful indeed. We have escaped none too soon; the dragonnades
are in full force, as you see, and if we would not be witnesses to
worse sights than the driving forth of women and children into the
streets we will not tarry long. It is early yet, but none too early for
our purpose.”
And, indeed, Michelle had hardly exchanged her eggs for some of the
homely commodities which a peasant might be supposed to buy, when
issuing from a shop across the narrow street Alaine caught sight of her
cousin Étienne. “Michelle, Michelle, do not look; my cousin is there on
the other side,” the girl said, in a shrill whisper.
Michelle needed no second warning, but, proving equal to the occasion,
re-entered the shop, where she was well known, and where she held
a brief consultation with the shopkeeper, which resulted in the
conducting of the two through a back way into one of the riverside
streets, where numerous inns and drinking-places stood to the right
and left. Here sailors rolled jauntily along, and here wonderful old
houses, each story overlapping the one below, loomed up over the
heads of the passers-by. A few steps away was the Rue Harenguerie,
and here in the midst of the cries and chatterings of the fish-wives
it was easy to lose one’s self. Across on the opposite bank was the
favorite promenade of the ladies of the town. Alaine had often been
there with her aunt among the careless pleasure-seekers, but now she
watched anxiously the stolid countenance of Michelle, who elbowed her
way through the market, and at last stopped upon its outskirts, where,
after some chaffering with a sharp-eyed man, she appeared satisfied,
and turned with a smile to her charge.
“Here we go,” she said. “Yonder is the cart which will take us in the
direction of Dieppe; but, alas! my little one, you have been looked
upon too suspiciously; yours is no peasant face, and despite your dress
you may be detected, for I gather enough to know that it is going to be
no easy task to get away safely. However, if you can be content with
a bed of cabbages and a coverlet of carrots you shall be transported
without harm. As for me, I am weather-beaten enough to pass easily, yet
we must wait till evening before we start. Meantime, under yonder cart
is your refuge, and I will stay here pretending to sell fish.”
In the dimness of twilight Alaine was established uncomfortably enough
on her bed of cabbages, and over her were lightly piled some overturned
baskets which were to hide her from view. She could breathe easily
and could move slightly, but the journey was long, and more than once
there were moments of terror when the cart was stopped and the driver
questioned. Michelle, however, was always equal to the occasion, and
by daybreak the small fishing village toward which their faces were
set was in sight, and by high noon the refugees were on their way to
England.