"LOVE HER! BEYOND ALL THOUGHT! AND SHE
IS THERE."
With the rapidity of wildfire the news had run over all Languedoc at
this time--was known, too, and shared by Catholics as well as
Protestants--that the English, who once they drew the sword never
sheathed it until its work was done, meditated an attack on France in
a fresh place, that place being her Mediterranean seaboard, the one
spot still free from their assaults up to now, also a spot more
vulnerable, since there were scarce any troops to defend it, the
armies of Montrevel and Julien being sufficiently occupied in
endeavouring, without success, to prevent the terrible reprisals the
Camisards were at last making.
And now indeed the desolation of Languedoc was supreme; now, like a
torch that flareth in the night, was visible an awful terror upon all
of the old faith, as well as the adherents of Louis, who dwelt
therein. Men of that old faith barricaded themselves in their houses,
refusing to either quit them or let any of their families do so, or to
receive bread into those houses in any other way than by baskets
raised by cords, either for fear that they should be stabbed to the
heart on their doorsteps or that they should add one more body to the
many that hung upon the branches of the trees by the wayside--bodies
having affixed to their dead breasts the label bearing the words,
"_Tous qui tomberont entre les mains des vengeurs seront traités
ainsi_." Verily, Languedoc was, as its greatest churchman, Fléchier,
said, but one vast gaping wound!
Yet not only was it the avengers who caused the wound. Maddened by
defeat, by merciless retaliation on their enemies' part, by their
fierce determination to never give or ask for quarter, Baville,
Montrevel, and Julien enacted more awful cruelties than had ever yet
been practised upon those of the Reformed faith. Again the dungeons of
the prisons, the vaults of the cathedrals, which living prisoners
shared with the coffined dead, re-echoed with the groans of the former;
_les places publiques_ were foul with the odour of burning flesh and
of corpses that rotted on wheels; the very roofs were laden with
carrion birds waiting their opportunity to swoop down and plunge
their beaks into the dying; even mothers slew the babes in their arms
sooner than see them perish slowly before their eyes from the pangs
of thirst and hunger. But still the war went on, if such oppression,
such retaliation, could be dignified by the name of war. Went on
because from Paris the word still came that none should worship God in
their own way, or in any other method than the priests of Rome
directed--priests who declared with their lips that the God they
served was one of love and mercy, yet sowed with full hands the seeds
of violence and trouble, of blood and death.
And now to add to all the terrors that the papists felt at last, to
all the fierce joys that the Protestants had begun to thrill with, it
was rumoured through the country that some great admiral of the
accursed English race, backed up by the Duke of Savoy, was about to
land an army at one of the ports with the full intention of assisting
the Protestants, and of, so those papists said, establishing
Protestantism over all the land. No wonder, therefore, that the
priests fled from their churches, that the archbishop said (forgetting
how he and his had outraged God for years) that "God had deserted
them."
Clad like muleteers in some cases, in others like travelling weavers,
and in still others like husbandmen and horse-dealers, some scores of
Camisards were making their ways by ones and twos at this period
toward Cette, avoiding Montpellier and leaving it to the east of them,
and threading the low lands that lay between that diocese and the
sister one of D'Agde, for _they_ knew where the landing was to be
attempted; knew likewise when the English assistance was to be
expected. Also--though few were aware of it, and Baville alone, on his
side, suspected that such was the case--from Holland, from Geneva,
from the villages of the Vaud and Valais, from Canterbury and
Spitalfields were coming refugees, some making their way by foot and
some on horses. They had been summoned from the lands they had fled
to, summoned to return and take part in what was now to be done.
Amid a small band which at this moment drew near to Frontignan there
rode Martin Ashurst, his companions being some of the noblest
Protestant blood of the province. Also by his side there rode the
English agent known as Flottard, a Huguenot whose father had escaped
long since into England and who spoke that language better than his
own, or rather than the _langue d'oc_ which had been his father's.
"And now, _mes frères_," said one of these companions, Ulson de la
Valette, who as a boy had been forced to stand before the scaffold of
Greonble holding his fainting mother's hand while they witnessed the
decapitation of his elder brother _pour cause d'hérésie_, "we must
separate, to meet again by Heaven's grace as followers of the English
admiral. Monsieur, read the route to our friends," and he turned to a
man clad as a monk. He had in truth been one who had but recently been
unfrocked at Rome on suspicion of heretic principles, and had now
openly avowed Protestantism, while still retaining the gown as a
disguise.
"This is the route," the monk answered, producing from his breast a
paper which, in the clear light of the dawn, he read from. "You, De la
Valette, and you, Fontanes, will pass straight on to Frontignan. You,
_messieurs les Anglais_," and he glanced at Martin and Flottard, "will
proceed through La Susc; the rest must distribute themselves and
travel through the villages of Sainte Bréze, Collanze, and Le Test.
Yet, remember, Baville has warned every _aguet_, every watchman, every
village consul and river guard. Capture and discovery mean death."
"The meeting-place," said Ulson de la Valette, "of all of us is the
plain of Frontignan, 'twixt that and the great port. The signal will
be the landing of the first English troops, the entry of the first
ship of war. The password is 'God and his children.' My friends,
farewell; yet, as you ride, forget not to pray for success. If God is
on our side now we are avenged and Louis beaten down under our feet.
We shall triumph."
A moment later all had parted, dispersing quietly after a hand-shake
round, and each going alone, Martin and Flottard remaining behind for
some little while so as not to follow too hurriedly upon the footsteps
of the others.
"Yet," said Flottard in English, which he spoke like a native, "we
must part too, Monsieur Martin. I have to enter Bouziques if I can;
'tis full of disguised Savoyards and some of your--our--land. You
will, I should suppose, join Sir Cloudesley Shovel?"
"As agent," Martin replied, "not combatant. My mission is to lead his
troops if possible to Montpellier and Nîmes, to act as guide."
"It will not save your neck if you are caught," Flottard said with a
laugh.
"There is no thought of that," Martin answered, hurt and annoyed that
the man should suppose this was his consideration. "But--but--I have
other things to do. To me are to be confided the arms, ammunition, and
money which the English fleet brings. Also, with the exception of you
and me, there is no one who can speak English."
"And," repeated Flottard, "there is no one the French will punish as
ferociously as they will punish us--for I am English too now--if we
are caught."
"They can do no worse by us than by their own," Martin replied
quietly.
Afterward, when they had parted, Flottard taking his way to Bouzique
while Martin rode on quietly toward Cette, he, musing deeply on all
which might be the outcome of the proposed attack by the English
admiral, told himself that, even were it possible for his punishment
to be made five thousand times worse than anything which had ever
been dealt out to the Protestants, nothing should stop him now but
death. He loved Urbaine Ducaire; had loved her, as he had said, since
first he saved her life, since they had sat together beneath the
sweet-scented blossoms of the acacia trees on that soft summer night
amid the desolation of the land; he should love her till the end.
And--and Cavalier had promised that, if he helped their cause now, on
his return he should lead Urbaine forth a free woman; should return
her safe and unharmed to Baville's arms, even though Baville was the
most hated name the Camisards knew.
Cavalier would keep his word. That he never doubted. Only there was
the future to be thought upon--the afterward. His love for her and
hers for him. How was that love ever to be brought to a happy
fruition? How? How? How? Would Baville give her to him, a Protestant,
even though it were proved, as Cavalier had said it could now be
proved beyond all doubt, that Urbaine was herself born in that faith?
Give her to him, an Englishman, a native of the land which had wrought
much disaster on France through innumerable centuries, that was even
now closing its grasp of steel upon France and crushing the very
life-blood out of all its pores? Would Baville, the Tiger of
Languedoc, ever consent to such a union as they projected, the
fulfilment of the troth which they had plighted?
One hope there was, he reflected: a hope that at least the question of
faith might not prove an insurmountable object. For though Baville was
of the old faith, though in the name of that faith and at the
instigation of its chiefs he had wrought innumerable cruelties, had
broken countless hearts and driven thousands to despair, religion had
been but a war cry with him, a banner under which to march. As a
papist he was but an indifferent one. He had said, had owned as much
more than once, that it was duty which led him to be severe, to crush
down rebellion, to exalt the King's authority. He would have acted in
precisely the same manner as he had recently acted had France been
Protestant and had the _attroupés_ been papists. "_Il est plus
royaliste que le Roi!_" Urbaine had said of him once in speaking to
Martin; "and to him the soil of France and the power of Louis are the
most sacred things he knows, except one other, his duty. The King made
him governor of Languedoc; in his mind Languedoc exists for the King
alone. Forgive him all for his loyalty, his obedience to duty."
As he reflected on this, trying to pierce the future, endeavouring to
see one glimmering ray of hope amid all the darkness which enveloped
that future, he drew near to where the port of Cette was; in the warm
autumn air with which these southern plains were suffused, it seemed
almost as if he scented the breezes of the great blue sea beyond. Also
it seemed as if already the balm of the myriad flowers which adorn its
shores was surrounding him, as if, with the bright rays of the sun, a
promise was heralded of peace and happiness at last.
It behooved him to be careful how he progressed, for all the
countryside was in a state of alarm. The English fleet had been seen
out at sea two days before! Also it was known to all the King's
followers that a descent was intended, while a regiment of dragoons
marching swiftly to the coast had given the information that, from the
towers of the cathedral at Montpellier, that fleet had been seen
approaching Maqualone. While even a worse cause for alarm was the
rumour that Cavalier with six hundred Camisards had passed by a
circuitous route toward Cette, and was now waiting on the beach to
welcome the English invaders.
Yet, furnished with papers which Flottard had caused to be procured
from Paris, not only Martin but most of the refugees who had of late
returned to the south of France managed to reach the coast ere night
fell, to reach the shore, there to await the coming of those who were
to land and succour them--a shore upon which were those Camisards who,
setting out with Cavalier long after Martin had departed, had by a
forced march contrived to reach Cette ere he and his companions were
able to do so, owing to the _détours_ they had made; a sandy, shingly
beach, from which, as now the warm night closed in on them, all gazed
upon what they saw before them.
Two large ships of war (their names were afterward known to be the
Pembroke and the Tartar) which through that night made signals
frequently that, none understanding, remained unanswered. Signals
arranged by the Earl of Nottingham (who, after many compunctions
against assisting rebels in arms, even though in arms against a king
hostile to England, had consented to Shovel making the attack), the
key to which he had forwarded to Peytaud, a Protestant but recently
returned from Holland. But Peytaud had been caught that morning ere he
could reach Cette; the signals had been found upon him, and, at the
time that the Pembroke and the Tartar were showing their masthead
lights, the unfortunate man's body was lying broken all to pieces on a
wheel in the crossroads outside Aiguësmortes.
And there were no duplicates! The signals remained unanswered. Later
on Cavalier said that he did not know these were the ships of war, but
in the darkness took them to be fishermen's boats. Had he known, he
averred that he would have swam out to them rather than have missed so
great a chance.
In the morning when day broke the topsails of these vessels were seen
to fill. Soon they were gone.
The hoped-for chance was lost, and lost forever. The tide no longer
served; nothing could have been then landed from the English ships,
nor could they have remained where they were. Already the galleys
armed to the teeth had put out in dozens to attack them. On the
horizon there rose the topmasts of a great French fleet coming swiftly
from Toulon.
And by Martin's side upon the desolate shore stood Cavalier, the
picture of despair.
"The opportunity is gone," he said; "gone also our last chance for
making peace. It is war now to the end. Yet had your countrymen but
got ashore the struggle would have been over; hampered on all sides,
Louis must have yielded, have made terms. God help us all!" and he
turned away to bid his followers disperse and make their way back by
the routes and by-paths which they knew of to the mountains.
As he did so there came through the crowd of Camisards one whom Martin
had seen before, a gaunt, haggard man, with an arm missing--an arm
which, it was said, had withered under the cruelties the Abbé du
Chaila had practised on this Cévenole while he had him in his power at
Montvert, so that, when at last the man was freed, it had to be
removed.
"Cavalier," he said, "Cavalier, friend and leader, bid them also
hasten on their way; lose no time. You have heard the news?"
"No! What?"
"Montrevel and Julien have forced the passes, taking advantage of our
absence. Roland, too, is away. The caverns are besieged. All in them
are lost."
"Lost! Pshaw! They will stand a siege of all Louis' armies."
"Ay, they will. But it is not for siege that the _battue_ is arranged.
Those in the caverns are caught in a _blocus_; they can make no
_sortie_. Outside, fires have been made. Hurry! or you will find
nothing but smoke-dried corpses when you return."
As he spoke there fell upon his ears a heartbroken gasp. Turning his
eyes, they lighted upon Martin--Martin who, white to the lips and
palsied with horror, could only mutter, "Urbaine! Urbaine. And she is
there!"
"Ay!" said Cavalier fiercely, "she is there. The blow falls as heavily
on Baville as on us----" Then paused in his speech. Paused to say in
an altered, gentle tone a moment later to Martin, "I see! See all! You
love her?"
"Love her! My God," Martin replied, "beyond all thought! And she is
there!"