CHAPTER XXXIII.

TOUT SAVOIR, C'EST TOUT PARDOXNER.

Coming to himself, Martin, lying there, wondered where he was. He felt

no pain in the wounded shoulder, only, instead, an awful weakness.

Also he felt no cold. Knew too that around him was wrapped some soft

warm garment, yet knew not that it was the great fur cloak in which

the woman whom he had loved had been muffled up as she descended from

the mountains, and in which she had long since enveloped him. Long

since to her, watching, waiting there for succour to come, through

two, three, four hours, and then another, but to him no length of time

whatsoever. And he did not know--he was indeed even still in a

half-unconscious state--how those hours had been spent by her,

heedless of the cold which pierced through and through her, spent in

sitting on the ground by his side, soothing him when he moaned

painfully, holding his hand, kissing his hot brow. Attending also to

his wound, and going even some distance farther along the fosse in the

hope of discovering water, yet without success.

He knew nothing; had forgotten how he came there, that she had been

with him, that there was such a woman, and that they loved each other

madly.

Then suddenly a voice broke in upon his unconsciousness--a voice that

seemed to recall him back to the world--the voice of Urbaine, yet, as

she spoke, stifled now and again by sobs.

"Better," it seemed to him that he heard her say, "better have slain

me with him, upon his desolate hearth, than have spared me to learn

this at last. Of you, you whom I worshipped, whom I so reverenced."

If he had doubted whether he lived or was already in the shades

leading to another world, or in that world itself, he doubted no

longer, when through that old crypt a second voice sounded, one known

to him as well as Urbaine's was known--a voice deep, solemn,

beautiful. Broken, too, as hers had been, yet sweet as music still.

"If," that voice said, "you had escaped with your lover to some

far-distant land as I hoped, ay, as even such as I dared to pray that

you might do, you would have learned all. In those papers I sent by

him you love, you would have known all on the morning you became his

wife. Now I must tell you with my own lips. Urbaine, in memory of the

happy years gone by, the years when you grew from childhood to

womanhood by my side, at my knee, hear my justification, let me

speak."

It was Baville.

Baville! Her father's murderer there! Face to face with Urbaine once

more!

For a moment the silence was intense, or broken only by the woman's

sobs. Then from her lips he heard the one word "Speak" uttered.

"Urbaine, your father died through me, though not by my will, not by

my hands."

"Ah!"

"I loved Urbain Ducaire," the rich, full voice went on. "Loved him,

pitied him too, knowing something, though not all, of his past life.

Knew that he, a Huguenot, was doomed if he stayed here in Languedoc,

stranger though he was, for his nature was too noble to conceal aught;

he was a Catholic who had renounced his ancient faith, a _nouveau

converti_, yet of the wrong side for his future tranquility. And he

boasted of it loudly, openly. He was doomed."

Again there was a pause broken only by the weeping of Urbaine. Then

once more Baville continued:

"I beseeched him to go, to leave the neighbourhood, to depart in

peace. Provided him with safe conducts, implored him to seek an asylum

in England or Holland where those of his newly adopted creed were

safe. He refused. Your mother, a woman of the province, had died in

giving birth to you. He swore he would not leave the place where her

body lay. He defied me, bade me do my worst."

"And--and----" Urbaine sobbed.

"And the orders came from Paris. From Louvois, then alive, and Madame

de Maintenon. '_Saccagez tous!_' they wrote. 'Those who will not

recant must be exterminated.'

"Then I sent to him by a trusty hand a copy of those orders. I bade

him fly at once, since even I could not save him. Told him that on a

fixed night--great God! it was the night ere Christmas, the night when

the priests bid us have our hearts full of love and mercy for each

other--I _must_ be at his cottage with my Cravates. He was a marked

man; also I was known to favour him. If I did so now, spared him and

imprisoned others, all the south would be in a tumult."

Again Baville paused. Again went on:

"I never deemed I should find him; would have sworn he must be gone

ere I reached his house. Yet went there, knowing that I dared not omit

him. Went there, praying, as not often I have prayed, that it would be

empty, forsaken. Alas! Alas! Alas! he had ignored my warning, my

beseechings. He _was_ there, reading his Bible. He defied me. By his

hand he had a pistol. Seeing the Cravates behind me, their musketoons

ready, it seemed as though he was about to use it. Raised it, pointed

it at me, covered my breast."

The pause was longer now. Martin, hearing, understanding all, his mind

and memory returned to him, thought Baville dreaded to continue. Yet

it was not so. The full clear tones reached his ear again:

"I could not deem him base enough to do that, to shoot me down like a

dog, since I had drawn no weapon of my own. It was, I have divined

since, the soldiers whom he defied. Yet in my contempt for what I

thought his idle threat, I cried scornfully '_Tirez donc_.' Alas, ah,

God! the fatal error that has forever darkened your life and mine!

Those words were misunderstood. The Cravates misunderstood them,

believed the exclamation an order given to them by me; a moment later

they had fired. O Urbaine! my love, my child--I--I--what more is there

to tell?"

And as he ceased, hers were not the only sobs Martin heard now.

Then, as they too ceased somewhat, another voice was heard by the

listener--the voice of Buscarlet.

"You hear? The wrong, that was in truth no wrong, is atoned. Has never

been. Your way is clear before you. The evil he has wrought has not

come nigh you or yours. Woman, as his heart has ever cherished you, I,

a pastor of your rightful faith, bid you give back your love to him."

The dawn was coming as the old man spake these words. In the thin

light of that new morning which crept in from where the moon's ray had

shone through the night, Martin, his fur covering tossed from off him

long since, saw Urbaine fall on Baville's breast, heard her whisper,

"My father, oh, my father!" Knew, too, that they were reconciled, the

past forgotten. And thanked God that it was so.

Yet once again Buscarlet spoke, his white hair gleaming in the light

of the coming day, his old form erect and stately before the other.

"You are absolved by her," he said; "earn absolution, too, for your

past cruelty by greater mercy to others of her faith. I charge you, I,

a priest of that persecuted faith, that henceforth you persecute no

more. God has given you back your child's love. Be content."

* * * * * * *

A little later and those three were gathered round the spot where

Martin lay, with, in the background, a fourth figure, that of

Baville's own surgeon. He had been brought by the Intendant after

Buscarlet had told the latter all that he had ridden hastily to Nîmes

to inform him of, and when the pastor had declared that if surgical

aid was not at once forthcoming the wounded man must surely die. And,

seeing him, the surgeon had said that his life still hung in the

balance; that if what Baville desired was to be done, it had best be

done at once.

"It will make you happy?" Urbaine whispered, her lips close to her

lover's, her arms about him.

"Passing happy," he murmured, "beyond all hope. Now, now, at once."

"You can do it?" the Intendant asked, turning to the pastor.

"I can do it now."

"So! Let it be done."

"Stay there by his side," Buscarlet said then to Urbaine, "upon your

knees.--Take you her hand," to Martin.

And in whispered tones he commenced the marriage ceremony of the

Huguenots as prescribed by their Church.

"Repeat after me that you take Urbaine Ducaire to be your wedded wife"

"Nay, nay," said Baville, interposing. "Nay, I had forgotten. Not

that. Not that. The packet would have told what both must have learned

ere they had been married elsewhere. Now I must tell it myself. Her

name is not Urbaine Ducaire."

"Not Urbaine Ducaire?" all exclaimed, looking up at him. "Not Urbaine

Ducaire?"

"Nay. Nor her father's Urbain Ducaire. Instead, this," and he produced

hastily his tablets from his pocket and wrote on them for some few

moments, muttering as he did so, "I knew it not till lately, until I

communicated with those in Paris, though I suspected. Also," he

repeated, "the packet would have told all."

Then, thrusting the tablets into the pastor's hands, while all around

still gazed incredulously at him, he said aloud: "Marry her in those

names and titles. Hers by right which none can dispute, and by the law

of Richelieu passed through the Parliament of Paris in the last year

of his life. The right of sole daughters where no male issue exists."

"These titles are lawfully hers?" Buscarlet asked, reading in

astonishment that which Baville had written, while Urbaine clung

closer still to her lover, wondering what further mystery surrounded

her birth, and Martin, no light breaking in on him as yet, deeming

Baville demented. "Lawfully hers?"

"Lawfully, absolutely hers. Proceed."

And again Buscarlet commenced:

"Repeat after me that you take Cyprienne, Urbaine Beauvilliers----"

"My God!" whispered Martin faintly ere he did so. "My God! that my

quest ends here!" Then he repeated the words that Buscarlet read from

Baville's tablets as he had been bidden.

"Baronne de Beauvilliers," the pastor continued, "Comtesse de

Montrachet, Marquise du Gast d'Ançilly, Princesse de Rochebazon,

daughter of Cyprien, Urbain Beauvilliers, former bearer of those

titles, to be your wedded wife--to----"

* * * * * * *

It was finished. They were married. The union blessed by a pastor of

their own Church and attested by him who had so persecuted the members

of that Church by order of the man, if indeed it was by his orders,

whom they called "The Scourge of God."

And Martin, gazing up into the eyes of his wife, murmured:

"I have not failed, my love, in what I sought. But, ah, that my search

should bring me to such perfect peace, should end with you! Now, if I

die, I die happy."

But even as she held him close to her, his head upon her shoulder, he

knew, felt sure, that he would not die; that God would restore him to

a new life, to be passed as long as it lasted by her side.

Postscript.--The historical incidents in the foregoing story have

necessarily, for obvious purposes in one or two instances, been

altered from their exact sequence. With this exception they are

described precisely as they occurred, each description being taken

from the best authorities, and especially the best local ones.

Exclusive of the names of Ashurst, Ducaire, and all pertaining to that

of De Rochebazon and of De Rochebazon itself, the others are, in

almost every case, authentic.

FOOTNOTES

[Footnote 1: Baville judged accurately. Of all who are descended from

those great Protestant houses, there is not one now who is not of the

Roman Catholic faith.]

[Footnote 2: Doubtless the Prophet's visions foresaw the Battle of

Almanza, whereon many hundreds of Camisards fell fighting for England

and the allies against France. A strange battle this! in which the

French were led by an Englishman, the Duke of Berwick, and the English

by a Frenchman, Ruvigny, afterward the Earl of Galloway.]

[Footnote 3: Among the inspired prophets of the Cévennes, none were

supposed to be more penetrated with this gift than the youngest

children. In their histories there are recorded instances, or perhaps

I should say beliefs, of babes at their mothers' breasts who had

received it, and were by signs and motions supposed to direct the

actions of their seniors.]

THE END.

End of Project Gutenberg's The Scourge of God, by John Bloundelle-Burton