CHAPTER XVII.

THE RUSE.

Nevertheless he was convinced that he was not mistaken. Yet

where--where had he seen this nephew of De Broglie before?

As one racks his brain to call up some circumstance or surrounding in

connection with a face that puzzles him, to recollect some action

associated with that face which shall assist the struggle of memory to

assert itself, he racked his brain now. Yet all was of no avail, even

though he brought before his mind every scene he could recollect since

first he had returned to France.

Of no avail!

The full deep wig _à la brigadier_, the laced blue coat, the

ivory-hilted sword of the young aristocrat, helped him not in the

least; refused rather to assimilate themselves in his memory with the

features which teased his recollection so. Yet, even as he meditated

thus, while these four men--himself, the commandant, the man who

perplexed him, and the officer under him--sat at supper in the old

banqueting room used by generations of the De Servas, he found himself

repeating those very words which had risen to his mind, "the young

aristocrat."

Young aristocrat! Well, if so, a strange one, and surely not

possessing the marks of breeding which a De Broglie should be the

owner of! He ate roughly, coarsely, almost it seemed greedily; also he

drank as a peasant drinks, in great copious draughts; laughed noisily

and loudly. Moreover, from out of the ruffles of Valenciennes there

protruded hands that scarcely proclaimed him a member of a well-born

family. Hands broad and with ill-shapen fingers, the nails of which

were flat and broken and none too clean; not the hands of one in whose

veins ran the blood of countless well-born men and women!

"Pity 'tis," this scion of _la vieille roche_ muttered to the

commandant, "that mademoiselle does not honour us to-night. Tired, you

say, after the fatigue of her escape from those base fanatics? Ha,

_sans doute!_ May she always escape as easily! 'Twill be well for

her."

As he spoke, Martin, removing his eyes from his face, saw a sight that

startled him--a sight that told him something terrible was in the air.

Far down, at the end of the old room, there was a small door, it not

being the main one; and at that door, which was open about half a

foot, he saw the face of Urbaine Ducaire, with, on it, an awful look

of horror--a horror which had brought to her face a whiteness such as

that which is upon the countenance of a corpse within its shroud; in

her eyes a glare such as is in the eyes of those who have seen a sight

to blast them. A glare, a look of agony, piteous to see.

At first he knew not what to do, yet even as he hesitated, undecided,

he felt sure he must not draw the attention of those at the table to

her, unless indeed he could attract the attention of the commandant

alone, for it dawned on him, though he could not have explained why,

that she, standing there behind the door, showing only that white face

and those terror-haunted eyes, had been endeavouring to make the old

man see her without being observed by the others.

What did it mean? What portend?

The conversation was eager between the remaining three at the table,

the commandant advancing a plan for trapping the Camisards in their

mountain fastnesses which Julien had a week or so before propounded,

the nephew of De Broglie and his companion listening, it seemed

scornfully, certainly deriding such plan.

"It will never succeed," the first of these two said; "never, never,"

and he laughed. "We, we of the king's forces, shall be driven back by

these vile fanatics, or led into a snare, or _guet-apens_ up in the

mountains. And then woe, woe to all! Not one will return to the

valleys, to the towns, to tell the tale."

Yet as he spoke, uttered such predictions of disaster, it seemed

almost as though he gloated over the picture he drew.

And still Martin saw ever before him the terrified face of Urbaine

Ducaire peering from behind the far-off door, the eyes glaring into

the room like the eyes of one who knows that behind her comes some

awful thing. With, in them, too, as it seemed to him, a piteous

glance, a glance of agony that she could not attract the gaze of the

man she sought--the commandant.

He could bear it no longer. Somehow he must reach her, communicate

with her, know what it was that has struck such fear into her soul.

An excuse for him to leave the table seemed easy. The room had grown

very hot. Already the nephew of De Broglie had protested he must

remove his great wig. The commandant had said they must have air.

"I will go and open the door," Martin said, rising from his place. To

open the windows would have been impossible since they were set high

up in the walls, as was the case in most châteaux of the day, and

could not be reached without a ladder. "The one at the farther end."

And as he went toward it he prayed Heaven none would follow him. Also

he saw that the girl's face was withdrawn as he rose from his chair,

the door closed-to gently. Then, a moment later, he reached it.

Setting it open, he glanced into the narrow passage that ran outside,

the farthest wall of this corridor having several low windows in it

which gave on to the courtyard; and, turning his eyes into its

dimness, he perceived Urbaine standing there, her back against the

wall, her arms extended droopingly against it too, as though thereby

to prevent herself from falling.

"Mademoiselle," he said, in a low voice, advancing toward her,

"mademoiselle, what has distressed, terrified you thus? I fear

that----"

Was she gone mad, he wondered! As he spoke she put both her hands out

in front of her, removing them from the wall and extending them from

her body as though to ward him off, to defend herself from him. Also

she pressed her body back against that wall as if thereby she might

shrink into it--away from him.

"Mademoiselle!" he exclaimed, amazed. "Mademoiselle----" but paused

again, for still she drew herself away from him as from some unclean,

loathsome thing. Then her white lips moved; he heard the words that

issued from them.

"Traitor!" she said. "Perfidious traitor! Come not near me!" and with

her hands she drew her travelling robe close round her as though to

prevent even that from being contaminated by him.

"Are you distraught, mademoiselle?" he asked. "Are----?" yet stopped

once more in his speech, for now, in the dusk of the night, he saw

those staring eyes, which he had deemed so lovely but a few hours ago,

glancing out through the passage window to the courtyard below; saw

them rivetted upon something beneath in that courtyard; saw, too, that

she shuddered as she gazed.

Then he too looked forth into it.

Upon the stones where the six _attroupés_ had been flung down in their

chains he saw those men standing now, free and unbound, in their hands

naked weapons. The light of a newly lit flambeau flickering on one of

their blades showed that it was deeply stained red. Also he saw that

they too were now clad in scarlet and blue, their own rude mountain

clothes discarded, flung in a heap in a corner.

And more he saw! Some were lying dead, or dying, in that courtyard;

men who had but a few hours ago formed part of the garrison; the men

whose clothes the others had already donned.

Like the lightning's flash there came to his mind what had happened;

he understood all. The ruse was successful. The Camisards, disguised

in the uniforms and trappings of the defeated soldiers of the day

before, had surprised and captured the château; the trick of

transporting those false prisoners had been a perfect one. Also he

knew now where he had seen M. de Broglie's nephew. The deep powdered

wig, the rich costume, served as disguises no longer. He recalled him!

Recalled him as one who, young as he was, had taken a leading part in

the massacre of the Abbé du Chaila, in the attack on Poul's convoy.

He understood, too, Urbaine's bitter words now. He was of these men's

faith; she deemed him one of them! Also that he had brought her here

only to betray her later into their hands. Bitter words that had sunk

into his heart perhaps forever, yet she should see.

He drew his sword, advanced a step nearer to her, then retreated.

"I ask your pardon," he said, speaking very low, "that I have come

near to you again. That I must address you. Yet, 'traitor' as I am, my

place is still by your side. I interfered to save you yesterday.

I must go on with what I have begun. One moment to warn the

commandant--if--they have not slain him--then--then--mademoiselle--to

save you from these men of my own faith."

But now she spoke no more, only--her eyes were fixed upon him with a

strange look--he could have sworn that in the almost absolute darkness

of the night which was upon them he saw her bosom heave pitiably. Then

from her lips he heard beyond all doubt a gasp come.

"Fear not," he said, "they will not murder a woman. Can not, at least,

murder you while I still live. Remain behind the door while I re-enter

the room."

Whereon, leaving her, he pushed open the door and advanced within, his

sword in his hand. As he did so he saw he had no chance; believed that

he was doomed.

The room was full of men, of the mock soldiers--the Camisards

disguised in the uniforms of De Broglie and of Hérault; doubtless they

had entered by the main door while he had been in the passage. Also

there were lights in it--two flambeaus placed in old sockets in the

walls, and white-wax candles in a great lustre on the table.

In front of him was the "nephew of M. de Broglie," his powdered wig

off now and his head showing a mass of long fair hair, while in his

hand he too held his drawn sword. At the table, his face fallen

forward upon it and his arms outstretched, was the old man, the

commandant, done to death.

"You craven hound!" hissed Martin, and as he spoke his rapier darted

full at the other. "You craven hound, you eat of that old man's dish,

drink of his cup, and murder him! Defend yourself, assassin!"

And, forgetful of any wrong that this man's (his own) faith might have

suffered at the hands of those of the commandant's creed, remembering

only that he was a gentleman face to face with one whom in his heart

he deemed the _canaille_, remembering, too, that he was a murderer, he

lunged full at him.

"_Malédiction!_" the Camisard exclaimed, driven back by the skill of

the other (skill acquired in many a _cours d'escrime_ in Paris, and

the fence school of the Guards at Kensington gravel-pits), and knowing

too, himself, but little of sword play except the rough cut-and-thrust

which he had practised in the mountains. "_Malédiction!_ You shall pay

dearly for this! _Au sécours mes frères_."

He called for succour none too soon. In another moment Martin's blade

would have been through his breast. None too soon! Fortunately for him

it was at hand. Like tigers rushing on their prey, half a dozen of the

disguised Camisards hurled themselves upon Martin; two threw

themselves on him behind, one knocked up his sword arm, two more

secured him. He was disarmed, captured, at their mercy.

"Shall we knock him on the head or cut his throat, brother Cavalier?"

one asked, while as he did so Martin knew that he stood before one of

the two chiefs of the Cévenoles, a man whose name was a terror by now

to all Languedoc, and, two centuries afterward, is still remembered.

"No," Jean Cavalier replied, "he is a bold man, of the tyrants' side

though he be. Most of them will be ours now we have risen. We will

spare him, for the present at least."

Then he turned to Martin, who stood there calm and contemptuous

(remembering that the fellow before him had been a baker's apprentice

a year or two back, as he had heard--the latter almost felt degraded

at having his life spared by such a man as this), and said with an

attempt at ease which he invariably adopted, and with, also, the fury

he had shown gone:

"Monsieur, it is the fortune of war which puts you in our power. You

must abide by it. What parish do you belong to?"

"None you ever heard of. One in the north of France. I am a stranger

here."

"A stranger!" Cavalier repeated incredulously, "a stranger!" And as he

did so Martin saw all the followers of the Camisards' chief gazing

astonishedly at him. "A stranger! If so, what are you doing here? What

have the affairs of this unhappy province to do with you? Also, why in

this château?"

What answer Martin might have made to his questions, if any, was not

given, since at this moment three of the men who had left the room

returned, bringing with them Urbaine Ducaire. They had found her

outside the door listening tremblingly to all that had happened

within, rooted to the spot, almost insensible.

Yet now, as she advanced between those men, something had given her

courage, had nerved her to strength. She trembled no more and,

although very white and with still a strange gleam in her eyes, she

walked erect; almost, to Martin observing her, it seemed defiantly.

What, he wondered, had stung her to this courage? Perhaps the contempt

that she too felt for her captors.

With a bow, Cavalier welcomed her, then asked:

"Have I the honour to stand face to face with the daughter of his

Excellency the Intendant?"

"I am the adopted daughter of the Comte de Baville," she answered

calmly. "When do you intend to slay me, as you have slain the others?"

and her eyes stole to where the commandant's body lay stretched over

the table.

For a moment Cavalier looked at her with a strange glance, surprised,

perhaps, at her calmness; it may be, stung by her absolute

indifference to his power. Then he said:

"Mademoiselle mistakes those whom she addresses. Doubtless, in these

surroundings, thinks she has fallen into the hands of papists or those

of similar faith. People who slay women burn them on the _grandes

places_, belabour their bare backs. I would not be discourteous, yet

mademoiselle will pardon me if I remind her that we are not of the

same religion as herself, or monsieur by her side."

Or monsieur by her side! Unanswering her captor, scarcely regarding

him, she stood there, a look impenetrable to Cavalier upon her face,

yet with her mind full of wonderment.

Or monsieur by her side! They did not know then that he was one of

them, in faith and belief at least--that--that----

"God!" she whispered to herself, still gazing beyond--through--the

Camisard chief, yet with no thought of him in her mind. "God! what

awful wrong have I done him again to-night, how misjudged him? To be

by my side as a protection still, to share my fate, he does not avow

himself a Protestant; consents to be deemed their enemy--a Catholic.

And he is not a woman. There is naught to save him."

Even as she so thought her eyes stole round and rested on him standing

there calmly near her side, avowing, denying nothing.