THE FINGER OF FATE
The months of the terrible summer of 1703 waned, and autumn came. Fire
and sword had laid waste in Languedoc. It had been a reign of terror.
The chieftains of the Camisards sweeping down from the Cévennes carried
the war almost to the sea; priests were slain, Catholic villages
burned. On the other side, the king’s soldiers poured into the devoted
country, and the Huguenots were hunted far and wide. The galleys at
Marseilles were crowded, the jails were packed, the gallows in constant
use; the women and children were sent to convents and prisons, and the
desolate country threatened famine, with no man to till the soil, and
no woman to bind the sheaves. Still it went on, that cruel war for
religion’s sake, and the blood of the innocent was poured out as a
libation.
Nîmes was thronged with soldiers, the markets were crowded, the busy
life choked the marts, but the open country was stricken; even the
valley of the Vaunage--“the little Canaan” of Languedoc--had suffered.
In the court of the Rue St. Antoine, the little cobbler mended the
shoes of the soldiers, and out at St. Cyr only one or two late roses
were blooming, and the bees had stored their honey for winter. The
every-day life went on; the steward was still there, chained by
invisible links now; he scarcely thought of leaving France, and he
knew that he might be needed, for Madame de St. Cyr was failing fast.
She had had an attack of heart disease, and sat in her chair all day,
without strength to take her accustomed part in affairs. M. de Baudri
still came, a persistent and undaunted suitor, and Père Ambroise
made his regular visits, walking in the garden with Rosaline, and
discoursing on the perils of heresy, but closing his eyes to suspicious
circumstances. He always walked with his hands behind him, his large
black figure seeming to absorb a good deal of the sunlight, and a smile
on his round, rosy face. What was the use, after all, of making that
poor old woman wretched? he argued comfortably, and he did not force
religious consolation upon Madame de St. Cyr. He was willing to let the
heretic burn in the next world, and she blessed him in her heart every
time she looked out at him as he ambled through the maze of hedges.
There had been a season of quiet, a brief interval in the clash of war,
and the family at St. Cyr breathed more freely. Fear and suspicion
seemed dormant, and Rosaline’s laugh came more readily, except when she
saw how feeble her grandmother looked.
It was the last of October, and the three, Madame de St. Cyr, her
granddaughter, and François d’Aguesseau had just finished the midday
meal. It was a golden day, almost as warm as summer, and a monthly
rose swung its blossoms over the window-sill. M. d’Aguesseau had been
fortunate enough to secure a communication with his friends in England,
and had received a remittance which enabled him to pay his debts and
to provide for the future. But he said nothing of a change, for he saw
that Madame de St. Cyr was unable to travel, and he would not quit
Languedoc while Rosaline was surrounded with so many dangers. They
were talking of every-day matters, of the approach of winter, of the
chances for the success of the insurrection, when they were startled
by the tramping of a body of horse in the road, and the sharp call of
a bugle. Madame’s face paled and Rosaline and d’Aguesseau sprang to
their feet. She ran ahead of him out at the door and down the path to
an opening in the hedge which afforded a view of the highway.
“’Tis M. de Baudri at the head of his dragoons!” she exclaimed, shading
her eyes with her hand and looking out.
A company of dragoons were filing along the road, the even gait of the
cavalry horses keeping the whole line swinging on to the sound of the
bugle. The gay uniforms were soiled and there were powder stains, and
in the centre of the troop were six prisoners,--grim-looking men, in
the garb of peasants with the blouse of the Camisards, and bound, their
arms tied behind their backs and their feet tied under the bellies of
their horses. At the sight of them Rosaline drew back with a shudder,
but it was too late; M. de Baudri had seen her and drew rein, saluting
her with unruffled composure. As he paused, the cavalcade halted
opposite the gate, bringing the prisoners in full view of the château.
They did not look to the right or left, however, but stared grimly
before them. Of the six, five were wounded, and the blood flowed from
an unbandaged wound on one man’s head. Faint from the loss of it, he
reeled in his saddle, but uttered no complaint. Meanwhile M. de Baudri
sat erect on his spirited horse, his head uncovered, his rich uniform
spotless, and his periwig freshly curled. He looked smilingly into
Rosaline’s pale face.
“A fair good morning, my Rose of Languedoc,” he said gallantly,
speaking too low for the ears of his dragoons; “I count it fortunate
when even my duty takes me past your door.”
She curtsied, her blue eyes looking straight before her and her lips
firmly closed. She was controlling herself with a mighty effort.
“Monsieur has surely unpleasant duties,” she said formally.
“The gayest in the world,” he replied with a careless laugh. “We have
cleaned out a cave full of Barbets this morning, and hung the leader
because he had the boldness to be shot in action. We swung his dead
body on a chestnut-tree--it hangs there with the burrs ready to ripen.
_Nom de St. Denis!_” he added, with a glance at his prisoners, “these
fellows would have been lucky to hang there too!”
Rosaline could endure no more.
“_Mon Dieu!_” she cried, “are you human? Can you see that poor man
bleed to death?”
De Baudri turned in his saddle and stared indifferently at the sufferer.
“A heretic, mademoiselle,” he remarked, with a gesture of disdain;
“what would you?”
“I would bind his wounds!” she retorted, taking a step nearer the gate;
but the sight had sickened her, the scene swam before her eyes, she
reeled, and would have fallen but for François, who had been standing a
few yards behind her, and who now sprang forward and caught her in his
arms.
“Why do you exhibit such cruelties to her?” he demanded sharply,
looking over her head into de Baudri’s eyes.
The latter had made a motion as if to spring from the saddle at the
sight of Rosaline’s white face, but now he straightened himself and
returned the other’s look with disdain.
“So!” he said with a sneer, “the menial turns into a champion. _Mère de
Dieu_, Sir Camisard, we will be pleased to accommodate you in Nîmes.”
“You may sometime have that pleasure, M. de Baudri,” d’Aguesseau
replied, coldly, and lifting Rosaline’s unconscious form in his arms,
he carried her back into the house.
The soldier remained a moment staring after them, his blue eyes on
fire, then he recollected where he was and gave an order. The bugle
sounded “Forward!” and the troop disappeared along the highroad to
Nîmes, leaving a cloud of dust in its track.
Meanwhile d’Aguesseau, fearing to alarm Madame de St. Cyr, carried
Rosaline into the hall and summoned Babet. But the girl began to
recover without any ministrations, and sat up on the high settle by
the door, the soft air reviving her; but her joyous mood was gone, she
looked out into the garden with unseeing eyes.
“Alas!” she said faintly, “I have been happy--and all this misery at
my door! I live a lie secure, and these martyrs die for their religion.
What a poor creature I am!”
Babet stood looking at her with a grim face; d’Aguesseau was silent,
his own conscience accusing him.
“It will not last,” Rosaline went on slowly, “I feel that trouble is
coming to us! What right have we to stand by and see it all and rejoice
in our false security. Ah, _mon Dieu_, that poor man!”
“It’s no use to seek trouble, mademoiselle,” Babet remarked, “it’ll
find us fast enough. I hear it grumbling like the thunder in the
Cévennes mountains. As for that poor man, never you mind; Cavalier will
catch some fat old curé for him!”
Retaliation was a salve to Babet’s moods; she was no saint and had no
longing to be a martyr. Rosaline shook her head.
“It must end,” she said, rising. “I will go to my grandmother. You may
cut the flowers to-day, Babet.”
She passed d’Aguesseau without a word; her emotion seemed to have
separated her from him, and all that day she was sad and preoccupied.
As for François d’Aguesseau, he went out through the garden and passing
the mulberry trees, descended a steep slope to the banks of a stream
which flowed behind St. Cyr. Following this, he passed through a little
forest of chestnut trees, heavily laden with green burrs, and came at
last to a deserted windmill. The tower was white and solid, and the
wheel still surmounted it though broken in several places, but the
mill had long been unused. The door stood open--on rusty hinges--and a
heap of straw lay in one corner, doubtless the resting-place of many
a vagrant in those evil times. On the threshold d’Aguesseau sat down,
facing the stream and the mossy slope. It was a favorite resort of his,
because of its solitude and stillness. Here many a battle of the heart
had been fought out, and here he came now to face another crisis. He
sat there a long while, and it was very quiet. Now and then a chestnut
burr fell with a soft thud in the little grove behind him; a squirrel
came to the edge of the bank and then leaped away; a fish jumped out of
the water and then plunged down again. Presently the breeze freshened,
the old windmill creaked as it turned a little, and the leaves rustled
softly. At last the sun sank lower in the west and sent long rays of
light through the trees, and the clouds overhead grew rosy.
François rose and walked toward the château; he was resolved to live
thus no longer. His presence was now more of a menace than a protection
to the women there. He had read the look in M. de Baudri’s eyes, and he
knew that he might expect the worst that a relentless enemy could do.
But it was not that; Rosaline’s words had struck home. He too had been
living a lie in security; he too felt himself a miserable coward before
the self-devotion of these poor peasants and wool-carders. He must draw
his sword for this forlorn hope; he must leave St. Cyr--ah, there was
the pang! Could he protect her at a distance? Could he watch over her
welfare while he fought with the Camisards? That was the chain that had
held him, and now even that must be broken.