"They are not Frenchwomen, Monsieur le Curé," observed the driver, after
a short pause. We were travelling slowly, for the curé would not allow
the peasant to whip on the shaggy cart-horse. We were, moreover, going
up-hill, along roads as rough as any about my father's sheep-walk, with
large round stones deeply bedded in the soil.
"No, no, my good Jean," was the curé's answer; "by their tongue I should
say they are English. Englishwomen are extremely intrepid, and voyage
about all the world quite alone, like this. It is only a marvel to me
that we have never encountered one of them before to-day."
"But, Monsieur le Curé, are they Christian?" inquired Jean, with a
backward glance at us. Evidently he had not altogether recovered from
the fright we had given him, when we appeared suddenly from out of the
gloomy shadows of the cypresses.
"The English nation is Protestant," replied the curé, with a sigh.
"But, monsieur," exclaimed Jean, "if they are Protestants they cannot be
Christians! Is it not true that all the Protestants go to hell on the
back of that bad king who had six wives all at one time?"
"Not all at one time, my good Jean," the curé answered mildly; "no, no,
surely they do not all go to perdition. If they know any thing of the
love of Christ, they must be Christians, however feeble and ignorant. He
does not quench the smoking flax, Jean. Did you not hear madame say,
'Help me, for the love of Christ?' Good! There is the smoking flax,
which may burn into a flame brighter than yours or mine some day, my
poor friend. We must make her and the _mignonne_ as welcome as if they
were good Catholics. She is very poor, cela saute aux yeux--"
"Monsieur," I interrupted, feeling almost guilty in having listened so
far, "I understand French very well, though I speak it badly."
"Pardon, madame!" he replied, "I hope you will not be grieved by the
foolish words we have been speaking one to the other."
After that all was still again for some time, except the tinkling of the
bells, and the pad-pad of the horse's feet upon the steep and rugged
road. Hills rose on each side of us, which were thickly planted with
trees. Even the figures of the curé and driver were no longer well
defined in the denser darkness. Minima had laid her head on my shoulder,
and seemed to be asleep. By-and-by a village clock striking echoed
faintly down the valley; and the curé turned round and addressed me
again.
"There is my village, madame," he said, stretching forth his hand to
point it out, though we could not see a yard beyond the _char à bancs_;
"it is very small, and my parish contains but four hundred and
twenty-two souls, some of them very little ones. They all know me, and
regard me as a father. They love me, though I have some rebel sons.--Is
it not so, Jean? Rebel sons, but not many rebel daughters. Here we are!"
We entered a narrow and roughly-paved village-street. The houses, as I
saw afterward, were all huddled together, with a small church at the
point farthest from the entrance; and the road ended at its porch, as if
there were no other place in the world beyond it.
As we clattered along the dogs barked, and the cottage-doors flew open.
Children toddled to the thresholds, and called after us, in shrill
notes, "Good-evening, and a good-night, Monsieur le Curé!" Men's voices,
deeper and slower, echoed the salutation. The curé was busy greeting
each one in return: "Good-night, my little rogue," "Good-night, my
lamb." "Good-night to all of you, my friends;" his cordial voice making
each word sound as if it came from his very heart. I felt that we were
perfectly secure in his keeping.
Never, as long as I live, shall I smell the pungent, pleasant scent of
wood burning without recalling to my memory that darksome entrance into
Ville-en-bois.
"We drove at last into a square courtyard, paved with pebbles. Almost
before the horse could stop I saw a stream of light shining from an open
door across a causeway, and the voice of a woman, whom I could not see,
spoke eagerly as soon as the horse's hoofs had ceased to scrape upon the
pebbles.
"Hast thou brought a doctor with thee, my brother?" she asked.
"I have brought no doctor except thy brother, my sister," answered
Monsieur Laurentie, "also a treasure which I found at the foot of the
Calvary down yonder."
He had alighted while saying this, and the rest of the conversation was
carried on in whispers. There was some one ill in the house, and our
arrival was ill-timed, that was quite clear. Whoever the woman was that
had come to the door, she did not advance to speak to me, but retreated
as soon as the conversation was over; while the curé returned to the
side of the _char à bancs_, and asked me to remain where I was, with
Minima, for a few minutes.
The horse was taken out by Jean, and led away to the stable, the shafts
of the _char à bancs_ being supported by two props put under them. Then
the place grew profoundly quiet. I leaned forward to look at the
presbytery, which I supposed this house to be. It was a low, large
building of two stories, with eaves projecting two or three feet over
the upper one. At the end of it rose the belfry of the church--an open
belfry, with one bell hanging underneath a little square roof of tiles.
The church itself was quite hidden by the surrounding walls and roofs.
All was dark, except a feeble glimmering in four upper casements, which
seemed to belong to one large room. The church-clock chimed a quarter,
then half-past, and must have been near upon the three-quarters; but yet
there was no sign that we were remembered. Minima was still asleep. I
was growing cold, depressed, and anxious, when the house-door opened
once more, and the curé appeared carrying a lamp, which he placed on the
low stone wall surrounding the court.
"Pardon, madame," he said, approaching us, "but my sister is too much
occupied with a sick person to do herself the honor of attending upon
you. Permit me to fill her place, and excuse her, I pray you. Give me
the poor _mignonne_; I will lift her down first, and then assist you to
descend."
His politeness did not seem studied; it had too kindly a tone to be
artificial. I lifted Minima over the front seat, and sprang down myself,
glad to be released from my stiff position, and hardly availing myself
of his proffered help. He did not conduct us through the open door, but
led us round the angle of the presbytery to a small outhouse, opening on
to the court, and with no other entrance. It was a building lying
between the porch and belfry of the church and his own dwelling place.
But it looked comfortable and inviting. A fire had been hastily kindled
on an open hearth, and a heap of wood lay beside it. A table stood close
by, in the light and warmth, on which were steaming two basins of soup,
and an omelette fresh from the frying-pan; with fruit and wine for a
second course. Two beds were in this room: one with hangings over the
head, and a large, tall cross at the foot-board; the other a low, narrow
pallet, lying along the foot of it. A crucifix hung upon the wall, and
the wood-work of the high window also formed a cross. It seemed a
strange goal to reach after our day's wanderings.
Monsieur Laurentie put the lamp down on the table, and drew the logs of
wood together on the hearth. He was an old man, as I then thought, over
sixty. He looked round upon us with a benevolent smile.
"Madame," he said, "our hospitality is rude and simple, but you are very
welcome guests. My sister is desolated that she must leave you to my
cares. But if there be any thing you have need of, tell me, I pray you."
"There is nothing, monsieur," I answered; "you are too good to us, too
good."
"No, no, madame," he said, "be content. To-morrow I will send you to
Granville under the charge of my good Jean. Sleep well, my children, and
fear nothing. The good God will protect you."
He closed the door after him as he spoke, but opened it again to call my
attention to a thick wooden bar, with which I might fasten it inside if
I chose; and to tell me not to alarm myself when I heard the bell
overhead toll for matins, at half-past five in the morning. I listened
to his receding footsteps, and then turned eagerly to the food, which I
began to want greatly.
But Minima had thrown herself upon the low pallet-bed, and I could not
persuade her to swallow more than a few spoonfuls of soup. I toot off
her damp clothes, and laid her down comfortably to rest. Her eyes were
dull and heavy, and she said her head was aching; but she looked up at
me with a faint smile.
"I told you how nice it would be to be in bed," she whispered.
"It was not long before I was also sleeping soundly the deep, dreamless
sleep which comes to any one as strong as I was, after unusual physical
exertion. Once or twice a vague impression forced itself upon me that
Minima was talking a great deal in her dreams. It was the clang of the
bell for matins which fully roused me at last, but it was a minute or
two before I could make out where I was. Through the uncurtained window,
high in the opposite wall, I could see a dim, pallid moon sinking slowly
into the west. The thick beams of the cross were strongly delineated
against its pale light. For a moment I fancied that Minima and I had
passed the night under the shelter of the solitary image, which we had
left alone in the dark and rainy evening. I knew better immediately, and
lay still, listening to the tramp of the wooden _sabots_ hurrying past
the door into the church-porch. Then Minima began to talk.
"How funny that is!" she said, "there the boys run, and I can't catch
one of them. Father, Temple Secundus is pulling faces at me, and all the
boys are laughing." "Well! it doesn't matter, does it? Only we are so
poor, Aunt Nelly and all. We're so poor--so poor--so poor!"
Her voice fell into a murmur too low for me to hear what she was saying,
though she went on talking rapidly, and laughing and sobbing at times. I
called to her, but she did not answer.
What could ail the child? I went to her, and took her hands in
mine--burning little hands. I said, "Minima! and she turned to me with
a caressing gesture, raising her hot fingers to stroke my face.
"Yes, Aunt Nelly. How poor we are, you and me! I am so tired, and the
prince never comes!"
There was hardly room for me in the narrow bed, but I managed to lie
down beside her, and took her into my arms to soothe her. She rested
there quietly enough; but her head was wandering, and all her whispered
chatter was about the boys, and the dominie, her father, and the happy
days at home in the school in Epping Forest. As soon as it was light I
dressed myself in haste, and opened my door to see if I could find any
one to send to Monsieur Laurentie.
The first person I saw was himself, coming in my direction. I had not
fairly looked at him before, for I had seen him only by twilight and
firelight. His cassock was old and threadbare, and his hat brown. His
hair fell in rather long locks below his hat, and was beautifully white.
His face was healthy-looking, like that of a man who lived much
out-of-doors, and his clear, quick eyes shone with a kindly light. I
ran impulsively to meet him, with outstretched hands, which he took into
his own with a pleasant smile.
"Oh, come, monsieur," I cried; "make haste! She is ill, my poor Minima!"
The smile faded away from his face in an instant, and he did not utter a
word. He followed me quickly to the side of the little bed, laid his
hand softly on the child's forehead, and felt her pulse. He lifted up
her head gently, and, opening her mouth, looked at her tongue and
throat. He shook his head as he turned to me with a grave and perplexed
expression, and he spoke with a low, solemn accent.
"Madame," he said, "it is the fever."