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 Château 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 Château 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, Ô 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 Nîmes "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 Château 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!"