THE PEASANTS' CAMP.
Something after high noon des Ageaux appeared and, whatever the
Abbess's feelings, he was overjoyed to find the three undisturbed. He
despatched a flying party down the valley that he might have notice if
the enemy approached, and then he bent himself to remove the Duke in
safety to his camp. In this the Abbess had her own line to take, and
took it with decision. She represented the patient as worse than he
was, described the fever as still lingering upon him, and using the
authority which her devotion of the night gave her, she insisted that
the Duke should see no one. A kind of shelter from the sun was woven
of boughs, and placed over the litter. He was then lifted and borne
out with care, the Abbess walking on one side, and her woman on the
other. In the open air des Ageaux would have approached and spoken to
him, for between gratitude and remorse the Lieutenant was much
touched. But the authority of the sick-nurse was great then as it is
now. The Abbess repelled him firmly, and, refusing the horse which had
been brought for her, she persisted in walking the whole distance to
the camp--a full league--by the side of the litter. In this way she
fenced others off, and the Duke had her always before him. Always the
opening at the side of the litter framed her face.
She gave her mind so completely to him that she took no note of their
route, save that they kept the valley, which preserving its flat
bottom now ran between hills of a wilder aspect. It was only when the
troopers, at a word from the Lieutenant, closed in about the litter,
that she observed--though it had been some time in sight--the object
which caused the movement. This was a small hill-town, girt by a
ruinous wall, and buckled with crazy towers, which topped an acclivity
on the right of the valley, and commanded the road. The suspicion with
which her escort regarded the place did not surprise her when she
remarked the filthy forms and wild and savage faces which swarmed upon
the wall. There were women and children as well as men in the place,
and all, ragged and half naked, mopped and mowed at the passers, or,
leaping to their feet, defied them with unspeakable words and
gestures.
The Abbess looked at them with daunted eyes. There was something
inhuman in their squalor and wildness. "Who are they?" she asked.
"Crocans," the nearest rider answered.
"But we are not going to them?" she returned in astonishment. She had
heard that they were bound for the peasants' camp, and her lip had
curled at the information. But if these were Crocans--horror!
The man spat on the ground. "That is one band, and ours is another,"
he replied. "All canaille, but--not all like that, or we had some
strange bed-fellows indeed!"
He would have said more, but he caught the Lieutenant's eye, and was
silent and five minutes later the Abbess saw a strange sight. The
riders before her wheeled to the left, and, bending low in their
saddles, vanished bodily in the rock that walled the road on that
side.
A moment later she probed the mystery. In the rock wall which fenced
the track on the left, as the river fenced it on the right, was an
arched opening, resembling the mouth of a cave--of one of those caves
so common in the Limousin. Within was no cave, however, but a spacious
circus of smooth green turf open to the heaven, though walled on every
side by grassy slopes which ran steeply to a height of a hundred feet.
There was no entrance to the basin, but neither its defensible
strength, nor the wisdom of the Crocans in choosing it, was apparent
until the green rampart cast about it by nature was examined and found
to be so scarped on the outer side as to form here a sheer precipice,
there a descent trying to the most active foot.
A spring near the inner margin of this natural amphitheatre fed a
rivulet which, after passing across it, and dividing it into two
unequal parts, escaped to the river through the rocky gateway.
The smaller portion of the sward thus divided, a portion raised very
slightly above the rest, had something of the aspect of a stage on a
great scale. About its middle a flat-topped rock rising to a man's
height from the ground had the air of an altar, and this was shaded by
the only tree in the enclosure, a single plane-tree of vast size,
which darkened with its ancient smooth-barked limbs a half-acre of
ground. Probably this rock and this tree had witnessed the meetings of
some primitive people, had borne part in their human sacrifices, and
echoed the cries with which they acclaimed the moment of the summer
solstice.
To-day this basin, long abandoned to the solitude of the hills,
presented once more a scene of turmoil, such as for strangeness might
rival the gatherings of that remote age. Nor, save for a circumstance
presently to be named, could even the Abbess's sullen curiosity have
withheld a meed of admiration as the panorama unfolded itself before
her.
Round the edge of the larger half of the amphitheatre ran a long
line--in parts double and treble, of booths open at the front, and
formed, some of branches of trees, some of plaited rushes or osier.
Under these, swarms of men, women, and children lounged in every
posture, while others strolled about the ground before the sheds,
which, crowded with sheep, oxen and horses, wore the aspect of a
rustic fair. The turf that had been so fair a fortnight before was
trodden bare in places, and in others poached and stained by the
crowds that moved on it. Only the immediate bank of the rivulet had
been kept clear.
The smaller portion of the sward had been given up to des Ageaux and
his band of troopers and refugees. A dozen horses tethered in an
orderly row at the rear of the plane-tree, with a pile of gear at the
head of each, spoke of military order, as did the three or four booths
which had been erected for the accommodation of the Vicomte's party.
But as in such a place and under such circumstances it was impossible
to enforce strict discipline, the curious among the peasants, and not
men only, but women and children, roved in small parties on this side
also, staring and questioning; some with furtive eyes as expecting a
trap and treachery, others watching in clownish amazement the
evolutions of a picked band of three score peasants whom the Bat was
beginning to instruct in the use of their weapons and in the simplest
movements of the field. Here and there on the steep slopes about the
saucer were groups of peasants; and on the top of the ridge, which was
forbidden to the crowd, were five sentinels, stationed beside as many
cairns of stones piled for the purpose at fixed distances from one
another. These were of the Lieutenant's institution, for though the
safety of the camp hung wholly on the command of its natural
battlement, which captured would convert the basin into a death-trap,
the Crocans had kept no regular guard on it. He on his arrival had
entrusted its oversight to the two young Villeneuves, and one or the
other was ever patrolling the length of the vallum, or from the
highest point searching the chaos of uninhabited hills and glens that
stretched on every side.
This hasty sketch of the scene leaves to be fancied those worst traits
of the camp, of its wildness and savagery, that could not fail to
disquiet the mind even of a bold woman. Many of the peasants were half
naked, others were clad in cow-skins, in motley armour, in sordid,
blood-stained finery. All went unshaven, and many had long, filthy
elf-locks hanging about their faces, and ragged beards reaching to
their girdles. Some had squalid bandages on head or limb, and all were
armed grotesquely with bill-hooks or scythes, or with stakes pointed
and hardened in the fire, or with knotty clubs. M. de Vlaye and his
kind would have seen in them only a horde to be exterminated without
pity or remorse. Nor could their looks have failed to startle the
Abbess, high as was her natural courage--if a thing had not at the
very entrance engaged her attention.
For there, under the archway, a group of six men sat on their hams,
their backs against the rock. And these were so foul in garb, and
repulsive in aspect, that the common peasants of the camp seemed by
comparison civilised. The Abbess shuddered at the mere look of them,
and would have averted her eyes if they had not, as des Ageaux
entered, risen and barred the way. The foremost, a tall, meagre figure
with a long white beard, and the gleam of madness in his eyes, seized
the Lieutenant's bridle and raising his other hand seemed to forbid
his entrance. "Give us," he cried in a strange patois, "our man! Our
man!"
The Abbess expected des Ageaux to strike him from his path, or bid his
men ride him down. But the Lieutenant considered with patience the
strange figure clad much as John the Baptist is portrayed in pictures,
and when he answered he spoke calmly. "You are from the town on the
hill?" he said.
"Ay, and we claim our man!"
"The man, you mean, whom we took from your hands last night?"
"Ay, that man!"
"For what?"
"That we may burn him," the savage answered, his face lit up by a
gleam of frightful cruelty. "That we may do to him as he has done to
us and our little ones. That we may burn him as he and his have burned
us, from father to son, father to son, by the light of our own thatch.
They have smoked us in our holes," he continued with ferocity, "as
they smoke foxes; and we will smoke him. He has done to us that! And
that!" He turned, and at a sign two of his five fellows stepped
forward and held aloft the maimed and ghastly stumps of their arms.
"And that! And that!" Again two stepped forward and pointed to their
eyeless sockets. "And what he has done to us we will do to him!"
The Abbess turned sick at the sight. But des Ageaux answered with
quietness. "Yet what has he done to you, old man," he asked, "that you
stand foremost?"
"He has blinded me there!" the madman answered, and with a strangely
dramatic gesture pointed to his brow. "I am dark at times, and boys
mock me! But to-day I am whole and well!"
"I will not give him up to you!" the Lieutenant replied with calm
decision. "But if he has done the things of which you tell me, I will
judge him myself and punish him. Nay"--staying them sternly as they
began to cry out upon him, "listen to me now! I have listened to you.
For all who come in to me, and cease from pillage, and burning, and
murder. I give my warrant that the past shall be overlooked. They
shall be free to go back to their villages, or if they dare not go
back they shall be settled elsewhere, with pardon for life and limb.
But for those who do not come in, the burden of all will fall upon
them! The law will pass upon them without mercy, and their gibbets
will be on every road!"
"Not so!" the other cried, raising himself to his full height and
flinging his lean arms to heaven. "Not so, lord, for the time is full!
Hear me, too, man of blood. We know you. You speak softly because the
time is full, and you would fain cast in your lot with us and escape.
But you are of those who ride in blood, and who trust in the strength
of your armour, and who eat of the fat and drink of the strong, while
the poor man perishes under the feet of your horses, while the earth
groans under the load of your wickedness, and God is mocked. But the
time is full, and there comes an end of your gyves and your gibbets,
your wheels and your molten lead! The fire is kindled that shall burn
you. Is there one of you for ten of us? Can your horses bear you
through the sea when the fire fills all the land? Nay, three months
have we burned all ways, and no man has been able to withstand our
fire! For it grows! It grows!"
The fierce murmurings of the madman's fellows almost drowned des
Ageaux' voice when he went to answer. "Your blood be on your own
heads!" he said solemnly. "I have spoken you fairly, I have given you
the choice of good and of evil."
"Nought but evil," the other cried, "can proceed out of your mouth!
Now give us our man!"
"Never!"
"Then will we burn you for him," the madman shrieked, in sudden
frenzy, "when you fall into our hands. You and these--women with
breasts of flint and hearts of the rock-core, who bathe in the blood
of our infants, and make a holiday of our torments! Beware, for when
next we meet, you die!"
"Be it so!" des Ageaux replied, sternly restraining his men, who would
have fallen on the hideous group. "But begone!"
They turned away, mopping and mowing--one was a leper--and lifting
hands of imprecation. And the Abbess, while the litter was being
lifted, was left for a moment with des Ageaux. She hated him, but she
did not understand him; and it was the desire to understand him that
led her to speak.
"Why did you not seize the wretches," she asked, "and punish them?"
"Their turn will come," he replied coldly. "I would have saved them if
I could."
"Saved them?" she exclaimed. "Why?"
"Who knows what they have suffered to bring them to this?"
She laughed in scorn of his weakness--who fancied himself a match for
the Captain of Vlaye! His cold words, his even manner, had somewhat
deceived her. But now she saw that he was a fool, a fool. She saw that
if she detached Joyeuse there was nothing in this man M. de Vlaye need
fear.
She left him then. She had had no sleep the previous night, and loth
as she was to lose sight of the Duke or to give another the chance of
supplanting her, she knew that she must rest. So weary was she after
she had eaten that the rough couch in the hut set apart for her--her
women after the mode of the day slept across the door or where they
could--might have been a chamber in the heart of some guarded palace
instead of a nook sheltered from curious eyes only by a wall of
boughs. She had that healthiness which makes nerves and even
conscience superfluous, and could not anywhere have slept better or
been less aware of the wild life about her. The slow tramp of armed
men, the voices of the watch upon the earth-wall, that to waking ears
told of danger and suspicion--these were no more to her in her fatigue
than the silent march of the summer stars across the sky.
When she awoke on the following morning, refreshed and full of energy,
the sun was an hour high, and the peasants' camp was astir. In one
place the Bat was drilling his three score men as if he had never
ceased; in another food was being apportioned, and forage assigned.
Neither des Ageaux nor her brothers were visible, but hard by her door
the Vicomte, attended by Bonne and Solomon, sat with a hand on either
knee, and gazed piteously on the abnormal scene.
The uppermost feeling in the old man's mind was a querulous wonder;
first that he had allowed himself to be dragged from his house,
secondly that, even since Coutras, things were suffered to come to
this pass. How things had come to this, why his life and home had been
broken up, why he had had no voice in the matter, and why his sons,
even crooked-back Roger, went, and came, and ordered, without so much
as a _by your leave_ or an _if you please_--these were points that by
turns puzzled and enraged him, and in the consideration of which he
found no comfort so great as that which Solomon assiduously
administered.
"Ah!" the old servant remarked more than once, as he surveyed with a
jaundiced eye the crowded camp beyond the rivulet, "they are full of
themselves! But I mind the day--it was when you entertained the
Governors, my lord--when they'd have looked a few beside the servants
we had to supper in the courtyard! A few they'd look. I'd sixty-two
men, all men of their hands, and not naked gipsies like these, to my
own table!"
Which was true; but Solomon forgot to add that it was the only table.
"Ay!" the Vicomte said, pleased, though he knew that Solomon was
lying. "Times are changed."
"Since Coutras--devil take them!" Solomon rejoined, wagging his beard.
"There were men then. 'Twas a word and a blow, and if we didn't run
fast enough it was to the bilboes with us, and we smarted. Your
lordship remembers. But now, Heaven help us," he continued with
growing despondency as his eye alighted on des Ageaux, who had just
appeared in the distance, "the men might be women! Might be women, and
mealy-mouthed at that!"
The Vicomte laughed an elderly cackling laugh. "You didn't think, man,
that the Villeneuves would come to this?" he said.
"Never! And would no wise ha' believed it!"
"Who were once masters of all from Barbesieux to Vlaye!"
"And many a mile further!" Solomon cried, leaping on the proffered
hobby. "There were the twenty manors of Passirac"--he began to count
on his hands. "And the farms of Perneuil, more than I have fingers and
toes. And the twenty manors of Corde, and the great mill there--the
five wind-mills of Passirac I don't think worth mentioning, though
they would make many a younger son a portion. Then the Abbey lands of
Vlaye, and the great mill there that took in toll as much as would
keep a vicomte of these times, saving your lordship's presence. And
then at Brenan----"
Bonne, listening idly, heard so much. Then the Abbess, who, unnoticed,
had joined the group, touched her elbow, and muttered in her ear: "Do
you see?"
"What?" Bonne asked innocently.
The Abbess raised her hand. "Why he has dragged us all here," she
said.
Bonne followed the direction of her sister's hand, and slowly the
colour mounted to her cheeks. But, "Why?" she asked, "I don't
understand."
"You don't understand," Odette answered, "don't you? It is plain
enough--for the blind." And she pointed again to the Lieutenant, who
was standing at same distance from the group in close talk with the
Countess. "The Lieutenant of Perigord is a great man while the King
pleases, and when the King no longer pleases is an adventurer like
another! A broken officer living at ordinaries," with a sneer, "at
other men's charges. Such another as the creature they call the Bat!
No better and no worse! But the Lieutenant of Perigord with the lands
and lordships of Rochechouart were another and a different person. And
none sees that more clearly than the Lieutenant of Perigord. He has
made his opportunity, and he is not going to waste it. He has brought
her here, and not for nothing."
Bonne had an easy retort. "At least he is not the first to see his
interest there!" lay ready to her tongue. But she did not utter it.
She was silent. Her colour fluttered, as the tender, weakling hope
that she had been harbouring, for a few hours, died within her. Of
course she should have known it! The prize that had attracted the
Captain of Vlaye, the charm that had ousted her handsome sister from
his heart--was it likely that M. des Ageaux would be proof against
these--proof against them when she herself had no prior claim nor such
counter-claims as beauty and brilliance? When she was but plain,
homely, and country-bred, as her father often told her? She had been
foolish; foolish in harbouring the unmaidenly hope, the forward
thought; foolish now in feeling so sharp and numbing a pain.
But perhaps most foolish in her inability to await his coming. For he
and the little Countess were approaching the group, at a slow pace;
the girl talking with an animation that showed she had quite forgotten
her shyness. Bonne marked the manner, the smile, the confiding upward
look, the lifted hand; and she muttered something, and escaped before
the two came within earshot.
She wanted to be alone, quite alone, to have this out with herself;
and she made for a tiny cup in the hillside, hidden from the camp by
the thick branches of the plane-tree. She had discovered it the day
before, but when she gained it now, there in the hollow sat Roger,
looking down on the scene below.
He nodded as if he were not in the best of tempers; which was strange,
for he had been in high spirits an hour before. She sat down beside
him, having no choice, but some minutes elapsed before he opened his
mouth. Then, "Lord," he exclaimed, with something between a groan and
a laugh, "what a fool a man can be!"
She did not answer; perhaps for the word "man" she was substituting
the word "woman." He moved irritably in his seat. "Hang it!" he
exclaimed. "Say something, Bonne! Of course it seems funny to you that
because she thanked me prettily the day I tried to cover her retreat
to the house and--and because she talked to me the night before last
as we rode--as if she liked it, I mean--I should forget who she is!"
"Who she is," Bonne repeated quietly, thinking of some one else who
had forgotten.
"And who I am!" he answered. "As if the Vicomte had not ground it into
me enough! If I were Charles, she would still be--who she is, and meat
for my master. But as I am what I am," he laughed ruefully, "would you
have thought I could be such a fool, Bonne?"
"Poor Roger," she said gently.
"She clung to me that day, when I ran with her. But, dash it"--rubbing
his head--"I must not think of it. I suppose she would have clung to
old Solomon just the same!"
"I am afraid so!" Bonne said, smiling faintly. It was certain that she
had not clung to any one. Yet there were analogies.
"I suppose you--you saw them just now?"
"Yes, I saw them."
"She never talked to me like that! Why should she--a thing like me."
Poor Roger! "I knew the moment I cast eyes on them. You did, too, I
suppose?"
"Yes," she answered.
Perhaps Roger had hoped in his heart for a different reply, for he
stared gloomily at the swarming huts visible above the tree. And
finally, "There is Charles," he said, "walking the ridge--against the
sky-line there! Why cannot I be like him, as happy as a king, with my
head full of battles and sieges, and the Bat more to me than any woman
in the world! Why cannot I? With such a pair of shoulders as I have--"
"Dear lad!"
"I should be in his shoes and he in mine! Lord, what a fool!" with
gloomy unction. "What a fool! I must needs think of _her_ when a
peasant girl would not look at me. I must needs think of the Countess
of Rochechouart! Oh, Lord, as if I had anything to give her! Or aught
I could do for her!"
Bonne did not reply on the instant, But presently, "There is something
you can do for her," she ventured. "It is not much, but----"
"What?" he said. "I know nothing."
"You can help him."
"I?"
"The mouse helped the lion. You can help him and be at his side, and
guard him in danger--for her sake. Just as," Bonne continued, her
voice sinking a little, "if you were a girl, and--and felt for him as
you feel for her, you could watch over her and protect her and keep
her safe--for his sake. Though it would be harder for a woman, because
women are jealous," Bonne added thoughtfully.
"And men too!" Roger rejoined from the depths of his small experience.
"All the same I will do it. And I am glad it is he. He won't beat her,
or shut her up and leave her in some lonely house as Court people do.
I believe," he continued gloomily, "I'd as soon it was he as any one."
Bonne nodded. "That is agreed then," she said softly, though a moment
before she had sighed.
"Agreed?" rather grumpily. "Well, if one person can agree, it is!" And
then, thinking he had spoken thanklessly to the sister who had been
his friend and consoler in many a dark hour when the shadow of his
deformity had hidden the sun, he laid his hand on hers and pressed it.
"Well, agreed it is!" he said more brightly. "They came from their
outside world to our poor little life, and we must help them back
again, I suppose. I would not wish them ill, if--if it would make me
straight again."
"That is a big bribe," she said, smiling. "But neither would I--if it
would make me as handsome as Odette!"
"No!"
They sat silent then. Far away on their left, where lay the entrance
to the camp from the river gorge, men were piling stones under the
archway, so as to leave but a narrow passage. Below them on the right
the Bat was drilling his pikemen, and alternately launching his lank
form this way and that in a fever of impatience. On the sky-line men
were pacing to and fro, searching with keen eyes the misty distance of
glen and hill; and ever and anon the squeal of a war-horse rang above
the multitudinous sounds of the camp. On every side, wherever the eye
rested, it discovered signs of strife and turmoil, harbingers of pain
and death.
But though the two who looked down on the scene neither knew it nor
thought of it, with them in their little hollow was a power mightier
than any, the power that in its highest form does indeed make the
world go round; the one power in the world that is above fortune,
above death, above the creeds--or, shall we say, behind them. For with
them was love in its highest form, the love that gives and does not
ask, and being denied--loves. In their clear moments men know that
this love is the only real thing in the world; and a thousand times
more substantial, more existent, than the objects we grasp and see.