CHAPTER XXVII.

HER FATHER, URBAIN DUCAIRE.

It was in a great hall, or chamber, of the Hôtel de Ville that Baville

now sat, splendidly apparelled, as was ever his custom when assisting

at any great public function. Once more he wore his white satin jacket

with, over it, the _justaucorps-à-brevet_, and with, upon his satin

waistcoat, the gold lilies of France emblazoned. Also his hat--which,

since he represented the King, he did not remove--was white and

fringed with gold lace, his ruffles were of the finest point de

Malines, his gloves gold-fringed, his sword ivory-hilted and

gold-quilloned. The rich costume suited well the handsome features of

the terrible Intendant of Languedoc--_le fléau du fléau de Dieu_, as

he had been called. That superb dress, combined with his dark olive

complexion, classic outline, and soft dark eyes, shaded by their long

lashes, caused Baville to look, as indeed he was, the handsomest man

in Nîmes that day.

Beneath him sat a group of men of the law. Three judges in scarlet and

ermine; the _Procureur du Roi_, also in scarlet, but with ermine only

at his cuffs; _greffiers_ and clerks, as well as two men who were

termed _abréviateurs_ and practised the shorthand of the day, with,

near these, many other persons of importance in Nîmes. Sandricourt,

the governor of the city, was there, as also Montrevel, his fierce

eyes rolling round the Court as they glared from his inflamed face;

Esprit Fléchier, Bishop of Nîmes, a good and righteous man,

reverencing deeply his ancient faith, yet shuddering with horror at

all that had been done in Languedoc, and was still doing, in the name

of that faith; and many more. For it was known to every one in Nîmes,

Protestant and Catholic alike, that to-day a man was to be tried who

was himself a Protestant, an ally of the Camisards in the mountains,

an English spy who had been one of those waiting on the shore of the

Mediterranean to welcome the English invader. Tried! tried! Nay,

rather brought up for condemnation and sentence without any trial to a

doom which meant either the flames in the market place or the wheel by

the cross in the Cathedral _Place_ below the _Beau Dieu_, or perhaps

the lamp whose post was highest. All knew this, Protestant and

Catholic alike; all knew, the former shuddering and the latter

gloating over the knowledge, that this was to be no trial, but a

sentence; no execution, but a murder.

The Court, or great chamber, began to fill with spectators, also with

those who were to act as guards to all who presided at or took part in

the proceedings. That guard would indeed be necessary, since none

could say, among those who represented what was termed the _Partie

Royaliste_, how soon its services might be required to prevent them

from being attacked and done to death, even as, in Mercier's mill

yesterday, they had attacked and done to death those of the other

side. None could say how, at any instant, sweeping down from their

mountain homes, from their impenetrable fastnesses and caverns, might

come the dreaded _attroupés_ headed by either Cavalier or Roland, with

their tigerish blood on fire to revenge the hideous massacre not yet

twenty-four hours old, or with a fierce determination in their hearts

to save the man who had been their friend and ally. At any moment a

shout might be heard, o'ermastered by the pealing of a solemn canticle

from a thousand throats; at any moment a psalm might break upon the

ears of all, as it rose to Him whom they termed the God of the

Outcasts, even as, to the swell of that hymn, was heard the clash of

steel, the shriek of those who were in the avengers' grasp, the cry of

despair from those who fell before the avengers' glaives. It was well

those guards should be there.

They came in now, the fierce Cravates whose eyes gleamed like dusky

stars from beneath their heavy brows, whose faces were as the faces of

wild beasts that rend and tear others, not so much because rending and

tearing is necessary to their own preservation as because it is their

sport and delight; men from whom women drew back shuddering as they

passed, and before whom their fellow-men felt their blood tingling

with the desire to measure themselves. Also the Miquelets were there,

the wolves of the Pyrenees who fought with their short, thin-bladed

knives, yet slew as surely as others slew with heavy-handled

swords or by shot of musketoon. Outside were the dragoons and the

Chevaux-Légers, even the humble militia of the province, proud yet

half timorous of the company they were in.

Scarcely could even Cavalier, the undefeated, have made his way with

his followers into that hall, or, being there, have done aught to

avenge the butchery of yesterday or to save the one who would shortly

be doomed to-day.

The guard set outside and in, every precaution taken. Those of the

citizens who chose to enter and were able to find standing room were

allowed to do so. They were a strangely assorted company. Some were of

the class known as the _nouveaux convertis_, men whom misery and fear

of poverty had turned from Protestantism to Roman Catholicism, men who

could not endure to face the flames or the gibbets. These were mostly

old--too old to seek the mountains and fight for their lives and their

faith, _vieillards_ who told themselves that the only fire they needed

was that of their own hearths to warm their blood, and who persuaded

themselves, though with many a tear dropped unseen, that one religion

was much the same as another. Yet by their sides came others now who

should have put their weakness to shame: old women brought up in the

same faith as they, yet scorning to change to save their skins; women

who now mouthed and grimaced at Baville as he sat in splendour on the

dais which acted as a substitute for Louis' throne, and seemed by that

mouthing and grimacing to defy the Intendant to injure them that

morning. Also, too, there came in shepherds and goatherds clad in

fleeces of the Narbonne sheep that grazed on the hills around, with

knives in their girdles; men known to be of the new faith, yet men who

were safe to-day, since the butchery of yesterday would not bear

repetition. Even Montrevel knew this, knew that he dared take no

vengeance at present on those mountaineers who scowled at him over the

shoulders of his own scowling soldiers, and nodded to one another and

whispered as they glanced toward where he sat, while they gazed

inquiringly into each other's eyes, as though asking a question. What

question? One, perhaps, as to whether it would not be well to o'erleap

the barriers and cut from ear to ear the throat of the beribboned and

bestarred swashbuckler who sat glaring before them! It may well have

been such a question as that.

The soft yet piercing eyes of Baville saw all who entered by the great

porte that gave into the chamber--_nouveaux convertis_, mountaineers,

monks and priests, prohibited Protestant _pasteurs_, old women and

men, soldiers off duty, and some members of the _noblesse_ (_grande et

petite_) from the surrounding towns and villages. Those eyes missed

not one face, yet seemed, judging by the calmness that dwelt in his

glance, to observe nothing; a calmness that told no more than a mask

or a marble bust tells, yet only served to cloak a hell which raged

within him. The unhappiest man in Languedoc that day was Baville, the

most heartbroken.

Ere the dawn had long been come, the Intendant, a prey to his own

thoughts, to his own self-reproaches, not knowing whether he had not

committed an act that was irreparable in handing Martin over to the

judges as an English spy, had left his bed and made his way to the

cell in which Martin had been placed.

"I must see him," he whispered to himself as he hastily donned a dark

coat and cloak, vastly different from the splendour of the costume he

now wore in open court. "I must see him, for I fear--O God, how I

fear!--that I have sent to his doom the man who has saved Urbaine. His

manner, his words, were the words, the action of truth. What hideous

reparation may I not have made!"

Thinking thus, musing thus, he had taken his way from the apartment he

occupied in the citadel when at Nîmes to the place where Martin was

detained, a room stone-flagged and built into the wall, and strong

enough to detain the most ferocious and determined prisoner who should

once find himself within it.

"Unlock the door," he said to the man, one of the local _milice_, who

was appointed to sit outside on guard over the prisoner within. "Open.

You know me, do you not?"

"Yes, monseigneur, I know you," the soldier said, springing to his

feet and preparing to do as he was bidden. "Yet will monseigneur

venture within? The man is, they say, a dangerous----"

"Bah! Open."

And a moment later the Intendant was gazing down upon him whom he had

denounced to the law, the man for whose trial, a few hours later, he

had already issued orders and summoned the judges.

Upon a low pallet Martin Ashurst lay sleeping as peacefully as though

in his own bed in his far-distant home, nor was he disturbed by the

grating of the key in the lock nor by the entrance of Baville. He had

slept but little for some nights past, and his long rides and

exertions had worn him out at last.

Gazing down upon him, observing the fair hair and handsome features of

his victim, Baville knew that here was no guilty man capable of

betraying a young and helpless girl to her death. The calm and

peaceful figure beneath him could scarce be that of one who would

descend to such villainies. Murderers of the young and innocent looked

not so innocent themselves! And if any confirmation of his thoughts

were needed, he had it now. Upon Martin's face there came a soft

smile; his lips parted and he murmured the name of Urbaine.

"Urbaine!" he whispered. "Urbaine! My love!"

Had an adder stung the Intendant standing there, or the lightning

stroke blasted him, neither could have been more terrible. His love!

His love! His love! Therefore he must have spoken truth when he said

that she was well, was happy.

"God help me," Baville muttered. "Have pity on me."

Even as he did so, Martin's eyes opened and he saw his enemy, his

captor, looking down upon him.

"What," he asked, the softness of his face all gone, his glance one of

contemptuous disdain, "do you desire of me? Is my hour come, and are

you here to show me the way to the scaffold? Is that the reason of

your presence?" and as he spoke he rose from the pallet and stood

before the other.

"Nay, nay," replied Baville, veiling his handsome face with the end of

his cloak, as though he feared his emotion might be too palpable.

"But--but--I have judged you too hastily. I have learned that but now.

Have indeed misjudged you. All pointed, all evidence pointed, to one

thing: that, by treachery unparalleled, you were the betrayer of

Urbaine--to her death."

For a moment the clear eyes of Martin, all traces of slumber vanished

from them, looked into the equally clear ones of Baville with a glance

that the latter could scarce fathom. Then Martin said, quietly: "And

you believed that evidence? Believed that I, whom you had made welcome

to your hearth, had made known to your child, should do _that!_"

"Almost I was forced to believe," Baville answered, his voice thick

and hoarse, his eyes lowered to the ground. "You were in the _mêlée_,

the attack upon the escort. You were at the Château St. Servas, and

she too was there. After that massacre--I--I--was compelled to

believe."

"Do you still believe?"

"No," the other answered, his voice still broken, his eyes still on

the ground.

"What has changed your belief against the evidence you speak of?"

"You murmured her name but now in your slumbers, spoke of her as your

love. Is she that? Do you love--her?"

"Yes, I love her. Before all, beyond all else in this world, I love

her." Then he turned his face away from Baville and whispered low:

"Urbaine, oh, Urbaine!"

The dawn had come now, saffron-hued, bright with the promise of a fair

day; had come stealing in through the _[oe]illet_ high up in the wall.

Through the cross of the _[oe]illet_ the morning sun streamed, also

throwing one ray athwart the features of the two men standing there

face to face.

"And--and "--whispered Baville now, the voice, usually so rich and

sweet, still blurred with emotion, almost indistinct, "and she

loves--returns--your love?"

"Yes," Martin answered, "yes."

"Has told you so?"

"Ay, with her own sweet lips to mine." Then suddenly, his tone

changed, speaking loudly, clearly, he exclaimed: "Man, you can not rob

me of that! Make one more victim of me in your shambles if you will,

yet, as I die, my last word, my last thought, shall be of Urbaine. My

recompense, her hate and scorn of you."

"No, no, no!" Baville exclaimed, his hands thrust out before him as

though groping for something he could not touch, or as though to fend

off the denunciation of the other. "No, no, not that. Never that. You

must be saved--for--for her sake. For Urbaine. She is my life, my

soul. Sorrow must never come _anigh_ her again. Already I have done--O

God!--have done her wrong. Enough. Listen. You will be tried to-day,

condemned as an English spy; the De Maintenon has said it----"

"The De Maintenon!"

"Ay! You are the heir to the wealth of the de Rochebazons--to much of

it. You are English. It is enough. Tried, I say, condemned! Yet you

shall be saved. Here, in Languedoc, _I_ am Louis. _I_ am France," and

once more Baville was himself, erect, strong, superb. "It shall be

done--it--it--it; there must be no sorrow," he repeated, "for

Urbaine."

"You forget one thing--the Church."

"The Church! Bah! Theirs is a sentimental power; mine is effective,

actual. You must be saved. I am Louis, the King, here. Shall be

recalled for what I do; be broken, ruined. Yet, _until recalled_, the

King. Go to your trial, but say nothing. Refuse to plead; that shall

suffice." Then changing the subject, he said eagerly, feverishly

almost, "Where is she? Where have you left her?"

"In the mountains. Under the charge of Cavalier."

"Cavalier!" Baville exclaimed recoiling, his face a picture of

suspicion and doubt. "With Cavalier! Under the charge of Cavalier! My

God! They will slaughter her! And you profess to love her!"

"She is safe; as safe as in your own arms. They will protect her."

"Protect her! Protect her! They! Protestants, like yourself!"

"Yes, Protestants, like myself. And, as they believe, nay, as they

know, perhaps as you yourself know, Protestants like--Urbaine

Ducaire!"

Through the thick moted sunbeams that swept from the _[oe]illet_

across the dusty room, passing athwart of Baville's face, Martin saw a

terrible change come into that face. Saw the rich olive turn to an

ashen hue, almost a livid hue; saw the deep, soft eyes harden and

become dull.

"They know," he whispered, "they know that! That Urbaine

is--a--Protestant? How--can--they--know--it?"

"One of their seers, a woman, divined it, proclaimed her no papist.

And Cavalier has discovered those who knew her father, Urbain

Ducaire."

"My God!"