'Fairer scenes the opening eye
Of the day can scarce descry,
Fairer sight he looks not on
Than the pleasant banks of Rhone.'
ARCHBISHOP TRENCH.
Long legs may be in the abstract an advantage, but scarcely so in what
was called in France _une grande Berline_. This was the favourite
travelling carriage of the eighteenth century, and consisted of a close
carriage or coach proper, with arrangements on the top for luggage, and
behind it another seat open, but provided with a large leathern hood, and
in front another place for the coachman and his companions. Each seat
was wide enough to hold three persons, and thus within sat Madame de
Bourke, her brother-in-law, the two children, Arthur Hope, and
Mademoiselle Julienne, an elderly woman of the artisan class, _femme de
chambre_ to the Countess. Victorine, who was attendant on the children,
would travel under the hood with two more maids; and the front seat would
be occupied by the coachman, Laurence Callaghan--otherwise La Jeunesse,
and Maitre Hebert, the _maitre d'hotel_. Fain would Arthur have shared
their elevation, so far as ease and comfort of mind and body went, and
the Countess's wishes may have gone the same way; but besides that it
would have been an insult to class him with the servants, the horses of
the home establishment, driven by their own coachman, took the party the
first stage out of Paris; and though afterwards the post-horses or mules,
six in number, would be ridden by their own postilions, there was such an
amount of luggage as to leave little or no space for a third person
outside.
It had been a perfect sight to see the carriage packed; when Arthur,
convoyed by Lord Nithsdale, arrived in the courtyard of the Hotel de
Varennes. Madame de Bourke was taking with her all the paraphernalia of
an ambassador--a service of plate, in a huge chest stowed under the seat,
a portrait of Philip V., in a gold frame set with diamonds, being
included among her jewellery--and Lord Nithsdale, standing by, could not
but drily remark, 'Yonder is more than we brought with us, Arthur.'
The two walked up and down the court together, unwilling to intrude on
the parting which, as they well knew, would be made in floods of tears.
Sad enough indeed it was, for Madame de Varennes was advanced in years,
and her daughter had not only to part with her, but with the baby
Jacques, for an unknown space of time; but the self-command and restraint
of grief for the sake of each other was absolutely unknown. It was a
point of honour and sentiment to weep as much as possible, and it would
have been regarded as frigid and unnatural not to go on crying too much
to eat or speak for a whole day beforehand, and at least two afterwards.
So when the travellers descended the steps to take their seats, each face
was enveloped in a handkerchief, and there were passionate embraces,
literal pressings to the breast, and violent sobs, as each victim, one
after the other, ascended the carriage steps and fell back on the seat;
while in the background, Honor Callaghan was uttering Irish wails over
the Abbe and Laurence, and the lamentable sound set the little lap-dog
and the big watch-dog howling in chorus. Arthur Hope, probably as
miserable as any of them in parting with his friend and hero, was only
standing like a stake, and an embarrassed stake (if that be possible),
and Lord Nithsdale, though anxious for him, heartily pitying all, was
nevertheless haunted by a queer recollection of Lance and his dog, and
thinking that French dogs were not devoid of sympathy, and that the part
of Crab was left for Arthur.
However, the last embrace was given, and the ladies were all packed in,
while the Abbe with his breast heaving with sobs, his big hat in one
hand, and a huge silk pocket-handkerchief in the other, did not forget
his manners, but waved to Arthur to ascend the steps first. 'Secretary,
not guest. You must remember that another time,' said Lord Nithsdale.
'God bless you, my dear lad, and bring you safe back to bonny Scotland, a
true and leal heart.'
Arthur wrung his friend's hand once more, and disappeared into the
vehicle; Nurse Honor made one more rush, and uttered another 'Ohone' over
Abbe Phelim, who followed into the carriage; the door was shut; there was
a last wail over 'Lanty, the sunbeam of me heart,' as he climbed to the
box seat; the harness jingled; coachman and postilions cracked their
whips, the impatient horses dashed out at the _porte cochere_; and
Arthur, after endeavouring to dispose of his legs, looked about him, and
saw, opposite to him, Madame de Bourke lying back in the corner in a
transport of grief, one arm round her daughter, and her little son lying
across her lap, both sobbing and crying; and on one side of him the Abbe,
sunk in his corner, his yellow silk handkerchief over his face; on the
other, Mademoiselle Julienne, who was crying too, but with more
moderation, perhaps more out of propriety or from infection than from
actual grief: at any rate she had more of her senses about her than any
one else, and managed to dispose of the various loose articles that had
been thrown after the travellers, in pockets and under cushions. Arthur
would have assisted, but only succeeded in treading on various toes and
eliciting some small shrieks, which disconcerted him all the more, and
made Mademoiselle Julienne look daggers at him, as she relieved her lady
of little Ulysse, lifting him to her own knee, where, as he was
absolutely exhausted with crying, he fell asleep.
Arthur hoped the others would do the same, and perhaps there was more
dozing than they would have confessed; but whenever there was a movement,
and some familiar object in the streets of Paris struck the eye of
Madame, the Abbe, or Estelle, there was a little cry, and they went off
on a fresh score.
'Poor wretched weak creatures!' he said to himself, as he thought the
traditions of Scottish heroic women in whose heroism he had gloated. And
yet he was wrong: Madame de Bourke was capable of as much resolute self-
devotion as any of the ladies on the other side of the Channel, but tears
were a tribute required by the times. So she gave way to them--just as
no doubt the women of former days saw nothing absurd in bottling them.
Arthur's position among all these weeping figures was extremely awkward,
all the more so that he carried his sword upright between his legs, not
daring to disturb the lachrymose company enough to dispose of it in the
sword case appropriated to weapons. He longed to take out the little
pocket Virgil, which Lord Nithsdale had given him, so as to have some
occupation for his eyes, but he durst not, lest he should be thought
rude, till, at a halt at a cabaret to water the horses, the striking of a
clock reminded the Abbe that it was the time for reading the Hours, and
when the breviary was taken out, Arthur thought his book might follow it.
By and by there was a halt at Corbeil, where was the nunnery of Alice
Bourke, of whom her brother and sister-in-law were to take leave. They,
with the children, were set down there, while Arthur went on with the
carriage and servants to the inn to dine.
It was the first visit of Ulysse to the convent, and he was much amazed
at peeping at his aunt's hooded face through a grating. However, the
family were admitted to dine in the refectory; but poor Madame de Bourke
was fit for nothing but to lie on a bed, attended affectionately by her
sister-in-law, Soeur Ste. Madeleine.
'O sister, sister,' was her cry, 'I must say it to you--I would not to my
poor mother--that I have the most horrible presentiments I shall never
see her again, nor my poor child. No, nor my husband; I knew it when he
took leave of me for that terrible Spain.'
'Yet you see he is safe, and you will be with him, sister,' returned the
nun.
'Ah! that I knew I should! But think of those fearful Pyrenees, and the
bandits that infest them--and all the valuables we carry with us!'
'Surely I heard that Marshal Berwick had offered you an escort.'
'That will only attract the attention of the brigands and bring them in
greater force. O sister, sister, my heart sinks at the thought of my
poor children in the hands of those savages! I dream of them every
night.'
'The suite of an ambassador is sacred.'
'Ah! but what do they care for that, the robbers? I know destruction
lies that way!'
'Nay, sister, this is not like you. You always were brave, and trusted
heaven, when you had to follow Ulick.'
'Alas! never had I this sinking of heart, which tells me I shall be torn
from my poor children and never rejoin him.'
Sister Ste. Madeleine caressed and prayed with the poor lady, and did her
utmost to reassure and comfort her, promising a _neuvaine_ for her safe
journey and meeting with her husband.
'For the children,' said the poor Countess. 'I know I never shall see
him more.'
However, the cheerfulness of the bright Irish-woman had done her some
good, and she was better by the time she rose to pursue her journey.
Estelle and Ulysse had been much petted by the nuns, and when all met
again, to the great relief of Arthur, he found continuous weeping was not
_de rigueur_. When they got in again, he was able to get rid of his
sword, and only trod on two pair of toes, and got his legs twice tumbled
over.
Moreover, Madame de Bourke had recovered the faculty of making pretty
speeches, and when the weapon was put into the sword case, she observed
with a sad little smile, 'Ah, Monsieur! we look to you as our defender!'
'And me too!' cried little Ulysse, making a violent demonstration with
his tiny blade, and so nearly poking out his uncle's eye that the article
was relegated to the same hiding-place as 'Monsieur Arture's,' and the
boy was assured that this was a proof of his manliness.
He had quite recovered his spirits, and as his mother and sister were
still exhausted with weeping, he was not easy to manage, till Arthur took
heart of grace, and offering him a perch on his knee, let him look out at
the window, explaining the objects on the way, which were all quite new
to the little Parisian boy. Fortunately he spoke French well, with
scarcely any foreign accent, and his answers to the little fellow's eager
questions interspersed with observations on 'What they do in my country,'
not only kept Ulysse occupied, but gained Estelle's attention, though she
was too weary and languid, and perhaps, child as she was, too much bound
by the requirements of sympathy to manifest her interest, otherwise than
by moving near enough to listen.
That evening the party reached the banks of one of the canals which
connected the rivers of France, and which was to convey them to the Loire
and thence to the Rhone, in a huge flat-bottomed barge, called a _coche
d'eau_, a sort of ark, with cabins, where travellers could be fairly
comfortable, space where the berlin could be stowed away in the rear, and
a deck with an awning where the passengers could disport themselves. From
the days of Sully to those of the Revolution, this was by far the most
convenient and secure mode of transport, especially in the south of
France. It was very convenient to the Bourke party; who were soon
established on the deck. The lady's dress was better adapted to
travelling than the full costume of Paris. It was what she called _en
Amazone_--namely, a clothe riding-habit faced with blue, with a short
skirt, with open coat and waistcoat, like a man's, hair unpowdered and
tied behind, and a large shady feathered hat. Estelle wore a miniature
of the same, and rejoiced in her freedom from the whalebone stiffness of
her Paris life, skipping about the deck with her brother, like fairies,
Lanty said, or, as she preferred to make it, 'like a nymph.'
{The cohe d'eau: p40.jpg}
The water coach moved only by day, and was already arrived before the
land one brought the weary party to the meeting-place--a picturesque
water-side inn with a high roof, and a trellised passage down to the
landing-place, covered by a vine, hung with clusters of ripe grapes.
Here the travellers supped on omelettes and _vin ordinaire_, and went off
to bed--Madame and her child in one bed, with the maids on the floor, and
in another room the Abbe and secretary, each in a _grabat_, the two men-
servants in like manner, on the floor. Such was the privacy of the
eighteenth century, and Arthur, used to waiting on himself, looked on
with wonder to see the Abbe like a baby in the hands of his faithful
foster-brother, who talked away in a queer mixture of Irish-English and
French all the time until they knelt down and said their prayers together
in Latin, to which Arthur diligently closed his Protestant ears.
Early the next morning the family embarked, the carriage having been
already put on board; and the journey became very agreeable as they
glided slowly, almost dreamily along, borne chiefly by the current,
although a couple of horses towed the barge by a rope on the bank, in
case of need, in places where the water was more sluggish, but nothing
more was wanting in the descent towards the Mediterranean.
The accommodation was not of a high order, but whenever there was a halt
near a good inn, Madame de Bourke and the children landed for the night.
And in the fine days of early autumn the deck was delightful, and to dine
there on the provisions brought on board was a perpetual feast to Estelle
and Ulysse.
The weather was beautiful, and there was a constant panorama of fair
sights and scenes. Harvest first, a perfectly new spectacle to the
children and then, as they went farther south, the vintage. The beauty
was great as they glided along the pleasant banks of Rhone.
Tiers of vines on the hillsides were mostly cut and trimmed like currant
bushes, and disappointed Arthur, who had expected festoons on trellises.
But this was the special time for beauty. The whole population, in
picturesque costumes, were filling huge baskets with the clusters, and
snatches of their merry songs came pealing down to the _coche d'eau_, as
it quietly crept along. Towards evening groups were seen with piled
baskets on their heads, or borne between them, youths and maidens crowned
with vines, half-naked children dancing like little Bacchanalians, which
awoke classical recollections in Arthur and delighted the children.
Poor Madame de Bourke was still much depressed, and would sit dreaming
half the day, except when roused by some need of her children, some
question, or some appeal for her admiration. Otherwise, the lovely
heights, surmounted with tall towers, extinguisher-capped, of castle,
convent, or church, the clear reaches of river, the beautiful turns, the
little villages and towns gleaming white among the trees, seemed to pass
unseen before her eyes, and she might be seen to shudder when the
children pressed her to say how many days it would be before they saw
their father.
An observer with a mind at ease might have been much entertained with the
airs and graces that the two maids, Rosette and Babette, lavished upon
Laurence, their only squire; for Maitre Hebert was far too distant and
elderly a person for their little coquetries. Rosette dealt in little
terrors, and, if he was at hand, durst not step across a plank without
his hand, was sure she heard wolves howling in the woods, and that every
peasant was '_ce barbare_;' while Babette, who in conjunction with Maitre
Hebert acted cook in case of need, plied him with dainty morsels, which
he was only too apt to bestow on the beggars, or the lean and hungry lad
who attended on the horses. Victorine, on the other hand, by far the
prettiest and most sprightly of the three, affected the most supreme
indifference to him and his attentions, and hardly deigned to give him a
civil word, or to accept the cornflowers and late roses he brought her
from time to time. 'Mere weeds,' she said. And the grapes and Queen
Claude plums he brought her were always sour. Yet a something deep blue
might often be seen peeping above her trim little apron.
Not that Lanty had much time to disport himself in this fashion, for the
Abbe was his care, and was perfectly happy with a rod of his arranging,
with which to fish over the side. Little Ulysse was of course fired with
the same emulation, and dangled his line for an hour together. Estelle
would have liked to do the same, but her mother and Mademoiselle Julienne
considered the sport not _convenable_ for a _demoiselle_. Arthur was
once or twice induced to try the Abbe's rod, but he found it as mere a
toy as that of the boy; and the mere action of throwing it made his heart
so sick with the contrast with the 'paidling in the burns' of his
childhood, that he had no inclination to continue the attempt, either in
the slow canal or the broadening river.
He was still very shy with the Countess, who was not in spirits to set
him at ease; and the Abbe puzzled him, as is often the case when
inexperienced strangers encounter unacknowledged deficiency. The
perpetual coaxing chatter, and undisguised familiarity of La Jeunesse
with the young ecclesiastic did not seem to the somewhat haughty cast of
his young Scotch mind quite becoming, and he held aloof; but with the two
children he was quite at ease, and was in truth their great resource.
He made Ulysse's fishing-rod, baited it, and held the boy when he used
it--nay, he once even captured a tiny fish with it, to the ecstatic pity
of both children. He played quiet games with them, and told them
stories--conversed on Telemaque with Estelle, or read to her from his one
book, which was Robinson Crusoe--a little black copy in pale print, with
the margins almost thumbed away, which he had carried in his pocket when
he ran away from school, and nearly knew by heart.
Estelle was deeply interested in it, and varied in opinion whether she
should prefer Calypso's island or Crusoe's, which she took for as much
matter of fact as did, a century later, Madame Talleyrand, when, out of
civility to Mr. Robinson, she inquired after '_ce bon Vendredi_.'
She inclined to think she should prefer Friday to the nymphs.
'A whole quantity of troublesome womenfolk to fash one,' said Arthur, who
had not arrived at the age of gallantry.
'You would never stay there!' said Estelle; 'you would push us over the
rock like Mentor. I think you are our Mentor, for I am sure you tell us
a great deal, and you don't scold.'
'Mentor was a cross old man,' said Ulysse.
To which Estelle replied that he was a goddess; and Arthur very decidedly
disclaimed either character, especially the pushing over rocks. And thus
they glided on, spending a night in the great, busy, bewildering city of
Lyon, already the centre of silk industry; but more interesting to the
travellers as the shrine of the martyrdoms. All went to pray at the
Cathedral except Arthur. The time was not come for heeding church
architecture or primitive history; and he only wandered about the narrow
crooked streets, gazing at the toy piles of market produce, and looking
at the stalls of merchandise, but as one unable to purchase. His mother
had indeed contrived to send him twenty guineas, but he knew that he must
husband them well in case of emergencies, and Lady Nithsdale had sewn
them all up, except one, in a belt which he wore under his clothes.
He had arrived at the front of the Cathedral when the party came out.
Madame de Bourke had been weeping, but looked more peaceful than he had
yet seen her, and Estelle was much excited. She had bought a little
book, which she insisted on her Mentor's reading with her, though his
Protestant feelings recoiled.
'Ah!' said Estelle, 'but you are not Christian.'
'Yes, truly, Mademoiselle.'
'And these died for the Christian faith. Do you know mamma said it
comforted her to pray there; for she was sure that whatever happened, the
good God can make us strong, as He made the young girl who sat in the red-
hot chair. We saw her picture, and it was dreadful. Do read about her,
Monsieur Arture.'
They read, and Arthur had candour enough to perceive that this was the
simple primitive narrative of the death of martyrs struggling for
Christian truth, long ere the days of superstition and division.
Estelle's face lighted with enthusiasm.
'Is it not noble to be a martyr?' she asked.
'Oh!' cried Ulysse; 'to sit in a red-hot chair! It would be worse than
to be thrown off a rock! But there are no martyrs in these days,
sister?' he added, pressing up to Arthur as if for protection.
'There are those who die for the right,' said Arthur, thinking of Lord
Derwentwater, who in Jacobite eyes was a martyr.
'And the good God makes them strong,' said Estelle, in a low voice.
'Mamma told me no one could tell how soon we might be tried, and that I
was to pray that He would make us as brave as St. Blandina! What do you
think could harm us, Monsieur, when we are going to my dear papa?'
It was Lanty who answered, from behind the Abbe, on whose angling
endeavours he was attending. 'Arrah then, nothing at all, Mademoiselle.
Nothing in the four corners of the world shall hurt one curl of your
blessed little head, while Lanty Callaghan is to the fore.'
'Ah! but you are not God, Lanty,' said Estelle gravely; 'you cannot keep
things from happening.'
'The Powers forbid that I should spake such blasphemy!' said Lanty,
taking off his hat. ''Twas not that I meant, but only that poor Lanty
would die ten thousand deaths--worse than them as was thrown to the
beasts--before one of them should harm the tip of that little finger of
yours!'
Perhaps the same vow was in Arthur's heart, though not spoken in such
strong terms.
Thus they drifted on till the old city of Avignon rose on the eyes of the
travellers, a dark pile of buildings where the massive houses, built
round courts, with few external windows, recalled that these had once
been the palaces of cardinals accustomed to the Italian city feuds, which
made every house become a fortress.
On the wharf stood a gentleman in a resplendent uniform of blue and gold,
whom the children hailed with cries of joy and outstretched arms, as
their uncle. The Marquis de Varennes was soon on board, embracing his
sister and her children, and conducting them to one of the great palaces,
where he had rooms, being then in garrison. Arthur followed, at a sign
from the lady, who presented him to her brother as 'Monsieur Arture'--a
young Scottish gentleman who will do my husband the favour of acting as
his secretary.
She used the word _gentilhomme_, which conveyed the sense of nobility of
blood, and the Marquis acknowledged the introduction with one of those
graceful bows that Arthur hated, because they made him doubly feel the
stiffness of his own limitation. He was glad to linger with Lanty, who
was looking in wonder at the grim buildings.
'And did the holy Father live here?' said he. 'Faith, and 'twas a quare
taste he must have had; I wonder now if there would be vartue in a bit of
a stone from his palace. It would mightily please my old mother if there
were.'
'I thought it was the wrong popes that lived here,' suggested Arthur.
Lanty looked at him a moment as if in doubt whether to accept a heretic
suggestion, but the education received through the Abbe came to mind, and
he exclaimed--
'May be you are in the right of it, sir; and I'd best let the stones
alone till I can tell which is the true and which is the false. By the
same token, little is the difference it would make to her, unless she
knew it; and if she did, she'd as soon I brought her a hair of the old
dragon's bristles.'
Lanty found another day or two's journey bring him very nearly in contact
with the old dragon, for at Tarascon was the cave in which St. Martha was
said to have demolished the great dragon of Provence with the sign of the
cross. Madame de Bourke and her children made a devout pilgrimage
thereto; but when Arthur found that it was the actual Martha of Bethany
to whom the legend was appended, he grew indignant, and would not
accompany the party. 'It was a very different thing from the martyrs of
Lyon and Vienne! Their history was credible, but this--'
'Speak not so loud, my friend,' said M. de Varennes. 'Their shrines are
equally good to console women and children.'
Arthur did not quite understand the tone, nor know whether to be
gratified at being treated as a man, or to be shocked at the Marquis's
defection from his own faith.
The Marquis, who was able to accompany his sister as far as Montpelier,
was amused at her two followers, Scotch and Irish, both fine young
men--almost too fine, he averred.
'You will have to keep a careful watch on them when you enter Germany,
sister,' he said, 'or the King of Prussia will certainly kidnap them for
his tall regiment of grenadiers.'
'O brother, do not speak of any more dangers: I see quite enough before
me ere I can even rejoin my dear husband.'
A very serious council was held between the brother and sister. The
French army under Marshal Berwick had marched across on the south side on
the Pyrenees, and was probably by this time in the county of Rousillon,
intending to besiege Rosas. Once with them all would be well, but
between lay the mountain roads, and the very quarter of Spain that had
been most unwilling to accept French rule.
The Marquis had been authorised to place an escort at his sister's
service, but though the numbers might guard her against mere mountain
banditti, they would not be sufficient to protect her from hostile
troops, such as might only too possibly be on the way to encounter
Berwick. The expense and difficulty of the journey on the mountain roads
would likewise be great, and it seemed advisable to avoid these dangers
by going by sea. Madame de Bourke eagerly acceded to this plan, her
terror of the wild Pyrenean passes and wilder inhabitants had always been
such that she was glad to catch at any means of avoiding them, and she
had made more than one voyage before.
Estelle was gratified to find they were to go by sea, since Telemachus
did so in a Phoenician ship, and, in that odd dreamy way in which
children blend fiction and reality, wondered if they should come on
Calypso's island; and Arthur, who had read the Odyssey, delighted her and
terrified Ulysse with the cave of Polyphemus. M. de Varennes could only
go with his sister as far as Montpelier. Then he took leave of her, and
the party proceeded along the shores of the lagoons, in the carriage to
the seaport of Cette, one of the old Greek towns of the Gulf of Lyon, and
with a fine harbour full of ships. Maitre Hebert was sent to take a
passage on board of one, while his lady and her party repaired to an inn,
and waited all the afternoon before he returned with tidings that he
could find no French vessel about to sail for Spain, but that there was a
Genoese tartane, bound for Barcelona, on which Madame la Comtesse could
secure a passage for herself and her suite, and which would take her
thither in twenty-four hours.
The town was full of troops, waiting a summons to join Marshal Berwick's
army. Several resplendent officers had already paid their respects to
Madame l'Ambassadrice, and they concurred in the advice, unless she would
prefer waiting for the arrival of one of the French transports which were
to take men and provisions to the army in Spain.
This, however, she declined, and only accepted the services of the
gentlemen so far as to have her passports renewed, as was needful, since
they were to be conveyed by the vessel of an independent power, though
always an ally of France.
The tartane was a beautiful object, a one-decked, single-masted vessel,
with a long bowsprit, and a huge lateen sail like a wing, and the
children fell in love with her at first sight. Estelle was quite sure
that she was just such a ship as Mentor borrowed for Telemachus; but the
poor maids were horribly frightened, and Babette might be heard declaring
she had never engaged herself to be at the mercy of the waves, like a bit
of lemon peel in a glass of _eau sucree_.
'You may return,' said Madame de Bourke. 'I compel no one to share our
dangers and hardships.'
But Babette threw herself on her knees, and declared that nothing should
ever separate her from Madame! She was a good creature, but she could
not deny herself the luxury of the sobs and tears that showed to all
beholders the extent of her sacrifice.
Madame de Bourke knew that there would be considerable discomfort in a
vessel so little adapted for passengers, and with only one small cabin,
which the captain, who spoke French, resigned to her use. It would only,
however, be for a short time, and though it was near the end of October,
the blue expanse of sea was calm as only the Mediterranean can be, so
that she trusted that no harm would result to those who would have to
spend the night on dock.
It was a beautiful evening which the little Genoese vessel left the
harbour and Cette receded in the distance, looking fairer the farther it
was left behind. The children were put to bed as soon as they could be
persuaded to cease from watching the lights in the harbour and the
phosphorescent wake of the vessel in the water.
That night and the next day were pleasant and peaceful; there was no
rough weather, and little sickness among the travellers. Madame de
Bourke congratulated herself on having escaped the horrors of the
Pyrenean journey, and the Genoese captain assured her that unless the
weather should change rapidly, they would wake in sight of the Spanish
coast the next morning. If the sea were not almost too calm, they would
be there already. The evening was again so delightful that the children
were glad to hear that they would have again to return by sea, and
Arthur, who somewhat shrank from his presentation to the Count, regretted
that the end of the voyage was so near, though Ulysse assured him that
'_Mon papa_ would love him, because he could tell such charming stories,'
and Lanty testified that 'M. le Comte was a mighty friendly gentleman.'
Arthur was lying asleep on deck, wrapped in his cloak, when he was
awakened by a commotion among the sailors. He started up and found that
it was early morning, the sun rising above the sea, and the sailors all
gazing eagerly in that direction. He eagerly made his way to ask if they
were in sight of land, recollecting, however, as he made the first step,
that Spain lay to the west of them--not to the east.
He distinguished the cry from the Genoese sailors, '_Ii Moro--Il Moro_,'
in tones of horror and consternation, and almost at the same moment
received a shock from Maitre Hebert, who came stumbling against him.
'Pardon, pardon, Monsieur; I go to prepare Madame! It's the accursed
Moors. Let me pass--_misericorde_, what will become of us?'
Arthur struggled on in search of such of the crew as could speak French,
but all were in too much consternation to attend to him, and he could
only watch that to which their eyes were directed, a white sail, bright
in the morning light, coming up with a rapidity strange and fearful in
its precision, like a hawk pouncing on its prey, for it did not depend on
its sails alone, but was propelled by oars.
The next moment Madame de Bourke was on deck, holding by the Abbe's arm,
and Estelle, her hair on her shoulders, clinging to her. She looked very
pale, but her calmness was in contrast to the Italian sailors, who were
throwing themselves with gestures of despair, screaming out vows to the
Madonna and saints, and shouting imprecations. The skipper came to speak
to her. 'Madame,' he said, 'I implore you to remain in your cabin. After
the first, you and all yours will be safe. They cannot harm a French
subject; alas! alas would it were so with us.'
'How then will it be with you?' she asked.
He made a gesture of deprecation.
'For me it will be ruin; for my poor fellows slavery; that is, if we
survive the onset. Madame, I entreat of you, take shelter in the cabin,
yourself and all yours. None can answer for what the first rush of these
fiends may be! _Diavoli_! _veri diavola_! Ah! for which of my sins is
it that after fifty voyages I should be condemned to lose my all?'
A fresh outburst of screams from the crew summoned the captain. 'They
are putting out the long-boat,' was the cry; 'they will board us!'
'Madame! I entreat of you, shut yourself into the cabin.'
And the four maids in various stages of _deshabille_, adding their cries
to those of the sailors, tried to drag her in, but she looked about for
Arthur. 'Come with us, Monsieur,' she said quietly, for after all her
previous depressions and alarms, her spirit rose to endurance in the
actual stress of danger. 'Come with us, I entreat of you,' she said.
'You are named in our passports, and the treaties are such that neither
French nor English subjects can be maltreated nor enslaved by these
wretches. As the captain says, the danger is only in the first attack.'
'I will protect you, Madame, with my life,' declared Arthur, drawing his
sword, as his cheeks and eyes lighted.
'Ah, put that away. What could you do but lose your own?' cried the
lady. 'Remember, you have a mother--'
The Genoese captain here turned to insist that Madame and all the women
should shut themselves instantly into the cabin. Estelle dragged hard at
Arthur's hand, with entreaties that he would come, but he lifted her down
the ladder, and then closed the door on her, Lanty and he being both left
outside.
'To be shut into a hole like a rat in a trap when there's blows to the
fore, is more than flesh could stand,' said Lanty, who had seized on a
hand-spike and was waving it about his head, true shillelagh fashion, by
hereditary instinct in one who had never behold a faction fight, in what
ought to have been his native land.
The Genoese captain looked at him as a madman, and shouted in a confused
mixture of French and Italian to lay down his weapon.
'_Quei cattivi--ces scelerats_ were armed to the teeth--would fire. All
lie flat on the deck.'
The gesture spoke for itself. With a fearful howl all the Italians
dropped flat; but neither Scotch nor Irish blood brooked to follow their
example, or perhaps fully perceived the urgency of the need, till a
volley of bullets were whistling about their ears, though happily without
injury, the mast and the rigging having protected them, for the sail was
riddled with holes, and the smoke dimmed their vision as the report
sounded in their ears. In another second the turbaned, scimitared
figures were leaping on board. The Genoese still lay flat offering no
resistance, but Lanty and Arthur stood on either side of the ladder, and
hurled back the two who first approached; but four or five more rushed
upon them, and they would have been instantly cut down, had it not been
for a shout from the Genoese, '_Franchi_! _Franchi_!' At that magic
word, which was evidently understood, the pirates only held the two
youths tightly, vituperating them no doubt in bad Arabic,--Lanty grinding
his teeth with rage, though scarcely feeling the pain of the two sabre
cuts he had received, and pouring forth a volley of exclamations,
chiefly, however, directed against the white-livered spalpeens of
sailors, who had not lifted so much as a hand to help him. Fortunately
no one understood a word he said but Arthur, who had military experience
enough to know there was nothing for it but to stand still in the grasp
of his captor, a wiry-looking Moor, with a fez and a striped sash round
his waist.
The leader, a sturdy Turk in a dirty white turban, with a huge sabre in
his hand, was listening to the eager words, poured out with many
gesticulations by the Genoese captain, in a language utterly
incomprehensible to the Scot, but which was the _lingua Franca_ of the
Mediterranean ports.
It resulted in four men being placed on guard at the hatchway leading to
the cabin, while all the rest, including Arthur, Hebert, Laurence, were
driven toward the prow, and made to understand by signs that they must
not move on peril of their lives. A Tuck was placed at the helm, and the
tartane's head turned towards the pirate captor; and all the others, who
were not employed otherwise, began to ransack the vessel and feast on the
provisions. Some hams were thrown overboard, with shouts of evident
scorn as belonging to the unclean beast, but the wine was eagerly drank,
and Maitre Hebert uttered a wail of dismay as he saw five Moors gorging
large pieces of his finest _pate_.