Let us now return to the cottage of the goodman Tinguy, which we left
for a time to make that excursion to the château de Vouillé.
Forty-eight hours have gone by. Bertha and Michel are again at the
sick man's bedside. Though the regular visits which Doctor Roger now
paid rendered the young girl's presence in that fever-stricken place
unnecessary, Bertha, in spite of Mary's remonstrances, persisted in
her care of the Vendéan peasant. Nevertheless, it is probable that
Christian charity was not the only motive which drew her to his
cottage.
However that may be, it is certain that, by natural coincidence,
Michel, who had got over his terrors, was already installed in the
cottage when Bertha got there. Was it Bertha for whom Michel was
looking? We dare not answer. Perhaps he thought that Mary, too, might
take her turn in these charitable functions. Perhaps, too, he may have
hoped that the fair-haired sister would not lose this occasion of
meeting him, after the warmth of their last parting. His heart
therefore beat violently when he saw the shadow of a woman's form,
which he knew by its elegance could belong only to a Demoiselle de
Souday, projecting itself upon the cottage door.
When he recognized Bertha the young man felt a measure of disappointed
hope; but as, by virtue of his love, he was full of tenderness for the
Marquis de Souday, of sympathy for the crabbed Jean Oullier, and of
benevolence for even their dogs, how could he fail to love Mary's
sister? The affection shown to one would certainly bring him nearer to
the other; besides, what happiness to hear this sister mention the
absent sister. Consequently, he was full of attentions and solicitude
for Bertha, who accepted all with a satisfaction she took no pains to
conceal.
It was difficult, however, to think of other matters than the
condition of the sick man, which was hourly growing worse and worse.
He had fallen into that state of torpor and insensibility which
physicians call coma, and which, in inflammatory diseases, usually
characterizes the period preceding death. He no longer noticed what
was passing around him, and answered only when distinctly spoken to.
The pupils of his eyes, which were frightfully dilated, were fixed and
staring. He was almost rigid, though from time to time his hands
endeavored to pull the coverlet over his face, or draw to him
something that he seemed to see beside his bed.
Bertha, who, in spite of her youth, had more than once been present at
such a scene, no longer felt any hope for the poor man's life. She
wished to spare Rosine the anguish of witnessing her father's
death-struggle, which she knew was beginning, and she told her to go
at once and fetch Doctor Roger.
"But I can go, mademoiselle, if you like," said Michel. "I have better
legs than Rosine. Besides, it isn't safe for her to go through those
roads at night."
"No, Monsieur Michel, there is no danger for Rosine, and I have my own
reasons for keeping you here. I hope it is not disagreeable to you to
remain?"
"Oh, mademoiselle, how can you think it? Only I am so happy in being
able to serve you that I try to let no occasion pass."
"Don't be anxious about that," said Bertha, smiling; "perhaps, before
long, I shall have more than one occasion to put your devotion to the
proof."
Rosine had hardly been gone ten minutes before the sick man seemed
suddenly and extraordinarily better. His eyes lost their fixed stare,
his breathing became easier, his rigid fingers relaxed, and he passed
them over his forehead to wipe away the sweat which began to pour from
it.
"How do you feel, dear Tinguy?" said the girl.
"Better," he answered, in a feeble voice. "The good God doesn't mean
me to desert before the battle," he added, trying to smile.
"Perhaps not; because it is for him you are going to fight."
The peasant shook his head sadly and sighed.
"Monsieur Michel," said Bertha to the young man, drawing him into a
corner of the room, so that her voice should not reach the patient,
"go and fetch the vicar and rouse the neighbors."
"Isn't he better? He said so just now."
"Child that you are! Did you never see a lamp go
out? The last flame is brightest, and so it is with our miserable
bodies. Go at once. There will be no death-struggle. The fever has
exhausted him; the soul is going without a struggle, shock, or
effort."
"And are you to be left alone with him?"
"Go at once, and don't think about me."
Michel went out, and Bertha returned to Tinguy, who held out his hand.
"Thank you, my brave young lady," said the peasant.
"Thank me for what, père Tinguy?"
"For your care, and also for thinking of sending for the vicar."
"You heard me?"
This time Tinguy smiled outright.
"Yes," he said, "low as you spoke."
"But you mustn't think that the presence of the priest means that you
are going to die, my good Tinguy. Don't be frightened."
"Frightened!" cried the peasant, trying to sit up in his bed.
"Frightened! why? I have respected the old and cared for the young; I
have suffered without a murmur; I have toiled without complaining,
praising God when the hail beat down my wheat and the harvest failed;
never have I turned away the beggar whom Sainte-Anne has sent to my
fireside; I have kept the commandments of God and of the Church; when
the priests said, 'Rise and take your guns,' I fought the enemies of
my faith and my king; I have been humble in victory and hopeful in
defeat; I was still ready to give my life for the sacred cause, and
shall I be frightened now? Oh, no! mademoiselle; this is the day of
days to us poor Christians,--the glorious day of death. Ignorant as I
am, I know that this day makes us equals with the great and prosperous
of the earth. It has come for me; God calls me to him. I am ready; I
go before his judgment-seat in full assurance of his mercy."
Tinguy's face was illuminated as he said the words; but this last
religious enthusiasm exhausted the poor man's strength. He fell
heavily back upon his pillow, muttering a few unintelligible words,
among which could be distinguished "blues," "parish," and the names of
God and the Virgin.
The vicar entered at this moment. Bertha showed him the sick man, and
the priest, understanding what she wanted of him, began at once the
prayer for the dying.
Michel begged Bertha to leave the room, and the young girl consenting,
they both went out after saying a last prayer at Tinguy's bedside.
One after the other, the neighbors came in; each knelt down and
repeated after the priest the litanies of death. Two slender candles
of yellow wax, placed on either side of a brass crucifix, lighted the
gloomy scene.
Suddenly, at the moment when the priest and the assistants were
reciting mentally the "Ave Maria!" an owl's cry, sounding not far
distant from the cottage, rose above the dull hum of their mutterings.
The peasants trembled.
At the sound the dying man, whose eyes were already glazing and his
breath hissing, raised his head.
"I'm here!" he cried; "I'm ready! I am the guide."
Then he tried to imitate the owl's cry in reply to the one he had
heard, but he could not. The lingering breath gave a sob, his head
fell back, his eyes opened widely. He was dead.
A stranger stood on the threshold of the door. He was a young Breton
peasant, wearing a broad-brimmed hat, a red waistcoat and silver
buttons, a blue jacket embroidered with red, and high leather gaiters.
He carried in his hand one of those sticks with iron points, which the
country people use when they make a journey.
He seemed surprised at the scene before his eyes; but he asked no
question of any one. He quietly knelt down and prayed; then he
approached the bed, looked earnestly at the pale, discolored face of
the poor peasant. Two heavy tears rolled down his cheeks; he wiped
them away, and went out as he had come, silently.
The peasants, used to the religious custom which expects all those who
pass the house of death to enter and say a prayer for the soul of the
dying and a blessing on the body, were not surprised at the presence
of a stranger, and paid no heed to his departure. The latter, on
leaving the cottage, met another peasant, younger and smaller than
himself, who seemed to be his brother; this one was riding a horse
saddled and bridled in peasant fashion.
"Well, Rameau-d'or," said the younger, "what is it?"
"This," replied the other: "there is no place for us in that house. A
guest is there whose presence fills it."
"Who is he?"
"Death."
"Who is dead?"
"He whose hospitality we came to ask. I would suggest to you to make a
shield of his death and stay here; but I heard some one say that
Tinguy died of typhoid fever, and though doctors deny the contagion, I
cannot consent to expose you to it."
"You are not afraid that you were seen and recognized?"
"No, impossible. There were eight or ten persons, men and women,
praying round the bed. I went in and knelt down and prayed with them.
That is what all Breton and Vendéan peasants do in such cases."
"Well, what can we do now?" asked the younger of the two.
"I have already told you. We had to decide between the château of my
former comrade or the cottage of the poor fellow who was to have been
our guide,--between luxury and a princely house with poor security,
and a narrow cottage, bad beds, buckwheat bread, and absolute safety.
God himself has decided the matter. We have no choice; we must take
the insecure comfort."
"But you think the château is not safe?"
"The château belongs to a friend of my childhood, whose father was
made a baron by the Restoration. The father is dead, and the widow and
son are now living in the château. If the son were alone, I should
have no anxiety. He is rather weak, but his heart is sound. It is his
mother I fear; she is selfish and ambitious, and I could not trust
her."
"Oh, pooh! just for one night! You are not adventurous, Rameau-d'or."
"Yes I am, on my own account; but I am answerable to France, or at any
rate, to my party for the life of Ma--"
"For Petit-Pierre. Ah, Rameau-d'or, that is the tenth forfeit you owe
me since we started."
"It shall be the last, Ma--Petit-Pierre, I should say. In future I
will think of you by no other name, and in no other relation than that
of my brother."
"Come, then; let us go to the château. I am so weary that I would ask
shelter of an ogress,--if there were any."
"We'll take a crossroad, which will carry us there in ten minutes,"
said the young man. "Seat yourself more comfortably in the saddle; I
will walk before you, and you must follow me; otherwise we might miss
the path, which is very faint."
"Wait a moment," said Petit-Pierre, slipping from his horse.
"Where are you going?" asked Rameau-d'or, anxiously.
"You said your prayer beside that poor peasant, and I want to say
mine."
"Don't think of it!"
"Yes, yes; he was a brave and honest man," persisted Petit-Pierre. "He
would have risked his life for us; I may well offer a little prayer
beside his body."
Rameau-d'or raised his hat and stood aside to let his young companion
pass.
The lad, like Rameau-d'or, entered the cottage, took a branch of
holly, dipped it in holy water, and sprinkled the body with it. Then
he knelt down and prayed at the foot of the bed, after which he left
the cottage, without exciting more attention than his companion had
done.
The elder helped Petit-Pierre to mount, and together, one in the
saddle, the other on foot, they took their way silently across the
fields and along an almost invisible path which led, as we have said,
in a straight line to the château de la Logerie. They had hardly gone
a hundred steps into the grounds when Rameau-d'or stopped short and
laid his hand on the bridle of the horse.
"What is it now?" asked Petit-Pierre.
"I hear steps," said the young man. "Draw in behind those bushes; I
will stand against this tree. They'll probably pass without seeing
us."
The man[oe]uvre was made with the rapidity of a military evolution,
and none too soon; for the new-comer was seen to emerge from the
darkness as the pair reached their posts. Rameau-d'or, whose eyes were
by this time accustomed to the dim light, saw at once that he was a
young man about twenty years of age, running, rather than walking, in
the same direction as themselves. He had his hat in his hand, which
made him the more easily recognized, and his hair, blown back by the
wind, left his face entirely exposed.
An exclamation of surprise burst from Rameau-d'or, as the young man
came close to him; then he hesitated a minute, still in doubt, and
allowed the other to pass him by three or four steps, before he cried
out:--
"Michel!"
The new-comer, who did not expect to hear his name called in that
lonely place, jumped to one side, and said in a voice that quivered
with emotion:--
"Who called me?"
"I," said Rameau-d'or, taking off his hat and a wig he had been
wearing, and advancing to his friend with no other disguise than his
Breton clothes.
"Henri de Bonneville!" exclaimed Baron Michel, in amazement.
"Myself. But don't say my name so loud. We are in a land where every
bush and ditch and tree shares with the walls the privilege of having
ears."
"True!" said Michel, alarmed; "and besides--"
"Besides what?" asked M. de Bonneville.
"You must have come for the uprising they talk of?"
"Precisely. And now, in two words, on which side are you?"
"I?"
"Yes, you."
"My good friend," said the young baron, "I have no fixed opinions;
though I will admit in a whisper--"
"Whisper as much as you like; admit what? Make haste."
"Well, I will admit that I incline toward Henri V."
"My dear Michel," cried the count, gayly, "if you incline toward Henri
V. that is enough for me."
"Stop; I don't say that I am positively decided."
"So much the better. I shall finish your conversion; and, in order
that I may do so at once, I shall ask you to take me in for the night
at your château, and also a friend who accompanies me."
"Where is your friend?" asked Michel.
"Here he is," said Petit-Pierre, riding forward, and bowing to the
young baron, with an ease and grace that contrasted curiously with the
dress he wore. Michel looked at the little peasant for a moment, and
then approaching Bonneville, he said:--
"Henri, what is your friend's name?"
"Michel, you are lacking in all the traditions of hospitality. You
forget the 'Odyssey,' my dear fellow, and I am distressed at you. Why
do you want to know my friend's name? Isn't it enough if I tell you he
is a man of good birth?"
"Are you sure he is a man at all?"
The count and Petit-Pierre burst out laughing.
"So you insist on knowing the names of those you receive in your
house?"
"Not for my sake, my dear Henri,--not for mine, I swear to you; but in
the château de la Logerie--"
"Well?--in the château de la Logerie?"
"I am not master."
"Oh! then the Baronne Michel is mistress. I had already told my little
friend Petit-Pierre that she might be. But it is only for one night.
You could take us to your own room, and I can forage in the cellar and
larder. I know the way. My young friend could get a night's rest on
your bed, and early in the morning I'll find a better place and
relieve you of our presence."
"Impossible, Henri. Do not think that it is for myself, I fear; but it
will compromise your safety to let you even enter the château."
"How so?"
"My mother is still awake; I am sure of it. She is watching for me;
she would see us enter. Your disguise we might find some reason for;
but that of your companion, which has not escaped me, how could we
explain it to her?"
"He is right," said Petit-Pierre.
"But what else can we do?"
"And," continued Michel, "it is not only my mother that I fear, but--"
"What else?"
"Wait!" said the baron, looking uneasily about him; "let us get away
from these bushes."
"The devil!"
"I mean Courtin."
"Courtin? Who is he?"
"Don't you remember Courtin the farmer?"
"Oh! yes, to be sure,--a good sort of fellow, who was always on your
side, even against your mother."
"Yes. Well, Courtin is now mayor of the village and a violent
Philippist. If he found you wandering about, at night in disguise he
would arrest you without a warrant."
"This is serious," said Henri de Bonneville, gravely. "What does
Petit-Pierre think of it?"
"I think nothing, my dear Rameau-d'or; I leave you to think for me."
"The result is that you close your doors to us?" said Bonneville.
"That won't signify to you," said Baron Michel, whose eyes suddenly
lighted up with a personal hope,--"it won't signify, for I will get
you admitted to another house, where you will be in far greater safety
than at La Logerie."
"Not signify! but it does signify. What says my companion?"
"I say that provided some door opens, I don't care where it is. I am
ready to drop with fatigue, I am so tired."
"Then follow me," said the baron.
"Is it far?"
"An hour's walk,--about three miles."
"Has Petit-Pierre the strength for it?" asked Henri.
"Petit-Pierre will find strength for it," said the little peasant,
laughing.
"Then let us follow Baron Michel," said Bonneville. "Forward, baron!"
And the little group, which had been at a standstill for the last ten
minutes, moved away. But they had hardly gone a few hundred steps
before Bonneville laid a hand on Michel's shoulder.
"Where are you taking us?" he said.
"Don't be uneasy."
"I will follow you, provided you can promise me a good bed and a good
supper for Petit-Pierre, who, as you see, is rather delicate."
"He shall have all and more than I could give him at La Logerie,--the
best food in the larder, the best wine in the cellar, the best bed in
the castle."