CHAPTER XVIII.

LA DIVINéRESSE.

The violets and the primroses grow in the chestnut woods that fringe the base of La Lozère, yet disappear as the roads wind up to the summit, giving place to the wild foxglove and heather which, in their turn, disappear as still the ascent continues. Also, the chestnuts themselves become more sparse and infrequent, until at last the woods cease altogether, and the mountaineer trends only on the soft, crisp brown grass that, lying warm beneath the winter's snows, springs but into existence to be consumed later by the fierce southern sun that beats on it.

Finally, with far beneath his feet the valleys basking in the warm sun, the wanderer stands upon a dreary upland with, around him, the mountain tops of the Cévennes huddled in wild confusion, as though thrown down from the palm of some great giant. A confusion of barren crags in some places, of, in others, great hills clothed with forests or upland pasturages, or, in a few cases, plots of cereals--a confusion over which in summer sweeps, without warning, a torrent of hail, or amidst which rise fogs that envelope all; that in winter is buried in snow over which the tempests howl. Here, too, wherever the eye turns, torrents are seen that, when Spring unlocks their floods and turns the frozen snow to water, leap down and hurl themselves over boulders and, in some cases, precipices until at last they reach the rivers beneath. Here also are bare walls of rock in which are the caverns that sheltered the Camisards whom Louis and Louvois, Chamillart and De Maintenon had driven forth into the mountain deserts. Yet not only Louis, le Dieudonné and his myrmidons, but, before him, that other Louis, his father, surnamed "The Just," who had, under the sword of the brutal Marshal de Thémines, also driven countless Huguenots to take refuge in these wild, stony citadels, and had forced them to fortify their mountains against their persecutors. To close their caverns with bronze doors secretly conveyed to them by Jeanne d'Albret, Protestant Queen of Navarre.

It was in one of these vast caves, a week after the Chateau de Servas had been burnt to the ground by the orders of Jean Cavalier (of how the garrison was put to death, none being spared, the peasants still tell nightly to all who care to hear), that there was gathered a vast company of men and women. A company assembled to sit in judgment on another man and woman who were in their power, to say whether the hour had come for the death of those captives or was still to be postponed. Postponed, not abandoned! For they were Catholics, persecutors. And, therefore, doomed, sooner or later. But first the prophets and the prophetesses had to speak. On them depended much; a swift doom that night or one that might be reserved for another day.

"You understand, mademoiselle?" the man said to his companion, seated by his side; "you understand? Our sentence depends on those gathered together round Cavalier. After they have spoken we shall know whether 'tis now or later."

"I understand," Urbaine Ducaire answered, the cold tone in which he spoke causing more grief to her heart than the awful import of his words. "I understand." Then her eyes sought his, met them, and were swiftly withdrawn.

They had been here a week, being treated well, allowed to roam about the vast caverns unmolested, yet never once allowed to form the most illusory hopes that there could be but one end to their captivity. The knowledge had been conveyed to them by now and then a word from one or from another, by a look from a third, by even a glance from Cavalier himself or from Roland, that for some of the Protestant men and women slaughtered by the Papists they were to furnish an expiation--a retaliation--as many other Catholics had already done who had fallen into their captors' hands.

Yet it was not the crowds of fierce Camisards who now surrounded them in this great cavern, lit by torches at its farthest end, and by the rays of the October sun which streamed in from where the great antique bronze doors, placed there a hundred years ago, stood at the hither end; nor the unpitying, cruel glances cast by the prophetesses at the girl, which caused the grief she felt. That came from another cause; from the cold disdain of the man by her side--the man to whom she owed it that she had not been slain in the attack made upon her escort. Disdain for the words she had uttered against him that night in the passage outside the banqueting hall of the Chateau St. Servas, for the manner in which she had misjudged him. Misjudged him as she had recognised well from that night itself, from the moment when, being himself a Protestant, he had refused to profit by the fact, but, instead, had remained silent when accused of being one of their captors' enemies. And his reason for doing so was certain; not to be doubted. So that he might still be by her side, still near to protect her, still near, if any chance should arise, to aid her escape. And now the time was at hand when their doom was to be determined, and yet he continued to hold his peace, would be ready to share her fate, and, she told herself, to despise her to the end.

"You are very noble," she had said to him that morning when they had been brought into the great cavern from the cells which each had had assigned to them, "and I, oh, God, how base! I wish the world had ended on that night, ere I uttered the words I did."

"It matters not," he said; "is worth no thought. You misjudged me, that is all."

She bowed her head before him, meaning thereby to acknowledge how utterly she had indeed misjudged him. Then she said, her eyes fixed on his:

"Yet--yet you will not let them continue in their ignorance of what you are? If--if they decide to slay, you will announce your fellowship with them? Is it not so?"

But to this he would make no answer, turning away his head from her.

"It needs but one word," she continued, "and you are free--free to go in peace."

He knew as well as she that it needed but one word; nay, he knew more. It needed but another word--the statement that he was an Englishman--to make him something more than free, to cause him to be received with acclamation by their captors, welcomed as a friend. For England was Louis' bitterest foe and the most powerful; a force slowly crushing the life out of France and her king, as she had been doing since first she shattered his great fleet at Barfleur and La Hogue. Also she was the home of every outlawed refugee and Huguenot; her people supplied them with help and succour; even to this remote spot money and arms were often secretly sent. And, further, 'twas whispered among the Protestants that an attack was to be made ere long on France's Mediterranean coast by one of England's admirals, after which there would not remain one frontier or border of the land that did not bristle with Protestant enemies.

It did indeed need but the words "I am an Englishman" for his safety to be assured. Yet he had sworn to himself that he would die at his captors' hands ere he uttered them or made the statement that he was of their faith, ere he would go forth and leave this girl here, alone and doomed.

"I do not desire," he said, "to earn my release by proclaiming myself a Protestant. I pity them for what they have suffered; yet--yet I am not in sympathy with their retaliation. I shall not proclaim myself."

But now the hum of voices from the crowd near them became hushed; from their midst one of the prophets, or, as they called them, "Les Extasés," was speaking. "Mes Frères," they heard him say, "the God of Battles fights on our side, even as once he fought upon the side of Joshua. Also he has inspired me to read the future. I see," he went on, extending his hands, "the time approaching when over all the land of France the Huguenots shall worship in peace in the way that most befits them; when no longer a tyrannous king, his married mistress by his side, shall send forth armies to crush them. Nay, more, I see the time at hand, ay, even in that king's lifetime, when he, reaping the fruits of his errors, shall find us the allies of his bitterest foes. I see our brother, Cavalier, leading his troops to victory against France, against France's own children in a distant land. I see a plain strewed with their bodies, crimson with their blood shed against France. But not yet, not yet."[2]

"Ay! not yet. And, my brother, tell us what of the present your holy visions disclose," Cavalier exclaimed. "I too can forecast the future when inspired by God. Speak, therefore, my brother; let us see if God has revealed to both of us alike."

Whereupon, again, the seer took up his strain.

"Languedoc shall be free at last," he said. "I see in the far distant future the altars overturned at which the children of the Devil worship, the priests of Baal slain, the gibbets empty, the flames burned out. Yet blood must be shed--the blood of all who bow to false gods, idols of wood and stone, cruel gods who have spared none of our faith, as now we will spare none of theirs. 'An eye for an eye, a tooth for tooth.' It is the Mosaic law; let it be carried out. Spare none." And even as he spoke his own eyes lighted on the man and woman sitting there awaiting their doom. Then, lifting up his voice, he sang, all joining in his song who stood around him, all holding up their hands to heaven:

Seigneur, entend ma plainte, écoute ma prière,
Ne detourne pas ta paupière
De ma détresse, ? Dieu vivant.
Je pleure, je gémis, j'erre dans les ténebras
Comme aux fentes des tours les hulottes funèbres
Et les oiseaux du Désert.

And as he spoke, in truth he wept, then flung himself upon his knees and prayed in silence. Yet looked up at last, and, pointing to Urbaine and Martin, while down his cheeks the tears rolled, exclaimed: "They are of Baal. They must die."

"You hear?" Martin whispered to his companion, "you hear? There is no hope; be brave."

"Save yourself," she whispered back. "Save yourself, or," and now her eyes sought his boldly, "I proclaim you--save you."

"You dare not, I forbid you: command you to hold your peace. If you proclaim me one of them, I will deny it. Be silent."

It seemed as if there would be no time for her to do as she threatened; their doom was at hand.

Down the long cavern the Camisards advanced slowly. Ahead of them strode Cavalier; yet even as he came he turned to those behind him and said some words as though endeavouring to calm them, to at least retard the hour of their vengeance; yet also, as it seemed by his face, with little hope of being able to do so.

Ahead of all came the women. One, who limped as she walked, Martin recognised as the girl Fleurette who had been dragged moaning from the Abbé du Chaila's house; another was the girl whom Urbaine had seen fire the shot which slew her companion, the gouvernante. Also there were others, some old, some middle-aged, some almost children. And, perhaps to nerve themselves to what they were about to do, one told of how her babe had been cast into the flames at N?mes "by order of Baville--her father," pointing as she spoke to Urbaine; another of how her boy had hung upon a lamp post at Anduse "by order of Baville--her father"; a third of how her old mother, gray and infirm, had also been consigned to the flames "by order of Baville--her father."

She, standing there, did not flinch as they approached; stood, indeed, calmly awaiting whatever they might be about to do to her--she who had shrieked as the shot was fired at Poul's escort, who had seemed as one blasted to death by what she had discovered in the Chateau de Servas. Neither flinched nor blanched, indeed smiled once into Martin's eyes as he, close by her side, took her hand gently in his; glanced swiftly up into his eyes as though asking if, at this supreme moment, he forgave.

"We die together," he said. "Remember, be brave."

"Thus," she whispered, "I fear nothing." Then murmured, even lower, "My God! how great, how noble you are!"

Suddenly, while now the Camisards were all around them and while Cavalier's voice rang out through the vaulted cavern, bidding them halt until they had decided what form of death should be meted out to the prisoners, a woman's voice rose high above all the others, commanding them to harken to her words, listen to the spirit of prophecy that was upon her.

"It is the Grande Marie," they said, "La Grande Marie. Hear her, hear her!" and stood still as they spoke, glancing at her.

Grande she was in stature, big and gaunt, with wild, misty eyes that seemed to glare into vacancy; her hair iron-gray and dishevelled, her voice rich and full as it rang down the cavern, silencing all other voices.

"The skies whirl round in starry circles," she said. "The voices of whispering angels are in my ears, the heavenly host are telling me strange things. Also the voice of God speaks to me; asks me a question. Asks me who it is we are about to slay? My brethren, answer for me."

"Who?" they shouted, "who?" Cavalier alone standing silent, his eyes upon the Grande Marie in wonderment. "Who? A stranger, who is of the persecutors' faith. A woman also of the devil--the child of Baville--the persecutor--the murderer."

The misty eyes roamed over all around her as they spoke. Then suddenly she moved toward them, her hand extended, one finger pointing. And with that finger she touched Cavalier on the arm, then the Camisard next to him, then another; then a woman, and another woman.

"All," she whispered, while a great hush was now upon those in the cavern, "all are God's children, all servitors of the Cross--all, all, all."

Again she went on, passing slowly by those in the cave, her finger touching each and every one, missing none. Peering, too, into their faces with those wild clouded eyes, penetrating them with her glances.

And now the silence was extreme. She had touched, had looked into the face of every one there except Martin and Urbaine.

Again she moved and approached him, standing tall, erect and calm, yet not defiantly, before his captor.

Her fingers advanced and touched his breast beneath where the lace of his cravat fell. With every eye upon them, she brought her face close to his, and for one minute seemed as if through her own eyes she would see deep into his brain. Then moved a step farther and stood before Urbaine Ducaire.

The girl, standing herself motionless, her hand clasped in Martin's, divined rather than felt that the finger of the prophetess was on her breast; saw that, as she opened her lids which she had closed when that wild form drew near her, the eyes of the seer were looking into hers. Then shuddered as they were removed.

"Away!" La Grande Marie exclaimed, as now there were no more to touch, no more to penetrate with those terrible glances, "away to your work in the valleys and the towns, to devastate, to destroy, when the moon which is the sun of the outcast is on high. Away, I say, to destroy, to devastate. Your work is not here. Our God has blinded you, led you astray. In this, our refuge, there is no child of the devil, no Papist. You are deceived. Those whom you would slay are of our faith!"