THE woodland ways, dim and gloomy even in the summer sunshine, were dark with the shades of night and cold with the breath of autumn. Oak and elm and chestnut tossed their discrowned heads in the rising wind, but underneath them all was still, save for the occasional hoot of an owl, or the scuttle among the fallen leaves of some wild creature that sought its lair.
One human form, one human step alone broke the solitude. With flying feet and panting breath, a young boy rushed along in mortal terror. At first, he followed a rough and broken footpath, but soon losing all trace of it he plunged through brake and brushwood, over gnarled roots, under overhanging boughs—anywhere, anyhow—away into the deep heart of the wood.
He was a mere child, though strong and active for his age. He went on bravely, until, stumbling over some obstacle, he fell face forward on the ground. Then first he knew he was tired—tired even to death. He could not go a step farther to save his life. Yet go he must. Death would be better for him than to be found there. And found he would be if anyone had seen him enter the wood. He might even be tracked with bloodhounds—he had heard of it. And hark! Was that sound the distant baying of a dog? No—more likely the howl of a wolf. That thought was a fresh terror. He seemed to see through the darkness the glaring eyes of the savage beast as it stole upon him—he felt the clutch at his throat. Fright brought back his exhausted strength. In a moment he was on his feet again, and off—like an arrow from the bow.
It could not last. His footsteps lagged, he limped painfully, swayed from side to side, leant for support against the giant stem of an old chestnut tree. He was not only exceedingly weary, but desperately hungry. And night was coming fast. Hot from his race he felt no cold, but he did feel two or three light flakes of snow as they fell on his burning brow. What would become of him, alone at midnight in the depths of the forest?
As the fear of pursuit grew fainter, and no bay of dog or howl of wolf broke the stillness, other fears more fantastic seized upon his soul. He was the child of a land of legend and folklore, which peopled the dim recesses of the forest with monstrous and terrible forms. He wept in childish terror, and then in childish trust he prayed: “Noter Pere, Toi qui es aux cieux, aie pitie de moi, pauvre enfant.” If he had only said, “Vous qui etes aux cieux,” he need not have been fleeing in fear through the forest. His prayer ended, he went aimlessly a few steps farther. They brought him to a more open space, where he could better look around him. Thence he saw a faint light glimmering through the trees. Could it be the lantern of his pursuers? But it did not look like that. It flickered, yet did not move. It came no nearer, went no farther off. Faint and weary, frightened and hungry as he was, it drew him on irresistibly.
His progress was slow, yet it did not take him long to reach the light. He saw that it came from the unglazed window of a rude hut—within which he might see human faces, hear human voices again. He might get food, warmth, shelter. He knocked very gently, as one half afraid. No answer. He knocked again, and louder.
Still no answer. Should he go away? That would be foolish—cowardly; and this little lad was no coward. Yet once more he knocked, and this time with all his might.
At last the door opened, showing in the firelight a little old woman with a wisp of gray hair, and the most wrinkled, battered face he had ever seen.
“Qui va?” she asked, sharply.
“I am cold and hungry and tired,” the boy faltered; “I am lost in the wood. Please you, mademoiselle, let me come in and warm myself.” (Mademoiselle was then the term of courtesy for women of all ages, if not noble, whether married or single.)
“Shut the door, Jeanne,” cried a man’s rough voice behind her.
She cried something back angrily, which brought as angry a reply. She retorted, with the door still in her hand. Then she opened it a little wider, with a grudging “Well, come in an’ thou wilt” to the stranger.
Even this invitation was thankfully accepted. The boy stood in the warm glow of a clear wood fire, over which hung a large pot, giving forth a most appetizing odor.
A man, as tall as his wife was under-sized, and with a scowl on his coarse, ugly features, was standing by the fire, and a little girl crouched beside him, playing with a dog. The boy noticed that she had golden hair.
“Who art thou, and what brings thee here?” asked the man in a surly voice.
“A poor boy, who has lost his way. Please—oh, please—let me stay!”
“I suppose thou hast a name, like other folk. What is it?”
He hesitated, and said at last in a bewildered way, “Philippe-Montel.”
At the name of Philippe the little girl looked up quickly. The man went on: “Where dost come from?” “The village.”
“A child like thee! And at this hour! Why, in heaven’s name?” It was not heaven that he invoked. It must be understood that both his speech and his wife’s were adorned with sundry flowers of rhetoric of a species which does not bear transplanting.
“I ran away—I was afraid—” Here at last, overcome by fear, by sorrow and by loneliness, the boy burst into a passion of tears.
“Stop that!” cried the man, not quite unkindly.
The woman came nearer, and looked at him from head to foot. “Hast any money?” she asked.
The boy put his hand in his pocket, took out a piece of silver, and laid it on the table.
“Is that all? Speak the truth, or I’ll make thee.” The difficulty was to speak at all. At last he sobbed out, “I have no more. Guillaume kept the money.”
“I suppose he robbed thee, and then took himself off.” The boy’s voice came back to him in his eagerness to defend a true friend, who could speak for himself—ah, never more! “Oh, no, no! Guillaume would have laid down his life for me. But he was taken ill at the inn, and died yesterday. Then I ran away.”
“Little fool! An’ if run thou must, why not first put thine hand in the wallet of this Guillaume, and take with thee that which a dead man has no use for?”
“I never thought,” said the boy.
The woman took up the coin. “At all events,” she said to her husband, “this will pay for his supper, and a lie down before the fire.” It had not escaped her small, keen, dark eyes that the boy’s clothing, though plain, was good and almost new.
Jean Darcheau nodded; so she gave “Philippe” a stool beside the fire, and left him to himself for a while, during which his sobs grew quieter, and at last ceased altogether. The warmth and the sense of safety and protection soothed him unawares; and what hungry boy could help enjoying the savory smell which came from the pot over the fire? He watched with interest the proceedings of the old woman as she removed it, and poured its contents—a rich broth with substantial pieces of meat in it—into a large wooden bowl, beside which she placed thick slices of black bread, cut from an enormous loaf shaped like a cart wheel. “Come, Philippe,” she said, “bring thy stool.”
Nothing loth, the boy obeyed, and took his place at the rough table, beside the little girl. The dog stood between them, in evident enjoyment of the “pleasures of hope.”
Hungry as he was, the boy did not touch the food without first bowing his head, and saying some words to himself, although without making the sign of the cross. Then he looked longingly at the great bowl, the contents of which were rapidly disappearing under the onslaught of three large wooden spoons. The old woman saw his difficulty. “Art blind, boy?” she snapped. “Dost not see that spoon beside thee? Work away!” Hunger conquering disgust, he dipped his spoon in with the rest, and found the result so satisfactory that he needed no further urging.
“How dost like thy supper?” she asked at last, in a kinder tone.
“I like it well,” the boy said, emphatically. “It is delicious. And,” he added, as a climax of commendation, “so well salted.”
His hosts exchanged glances half amused, half suspicious. Salt in those days was a very costly luxury. In many parts of the country it cost a poor family as much as all the rest of their food put together.
Food and warmth were fast doing their work upon the frame and senses of ten years old. Philippe, as he called himself, was first conscious of a vague surprise that such poor people should have such good things to eat—then of an impression that he was still at the inn—that Guillaume was not dead, but getting better—until finally he felt suddenly that he was falling, and clutched at the table to save himself.
“Come,” said the woman briefly. She threw down an old gray cloak before the fire, added a bundle of rags for a pillow, and his bed was made. Never was bed more welcome to a weary traveler, not even that famous feather bed which it cost a certain Mayor of Bristol the exorbitant sum of one penny to sleep upon, causing him to observe that though it was very dear the comfort was quite worth it. In the midst of his murmured evening prayer the boy’s mind had slipped off into dreams of home—a home as different from this as if it belonged to another world. Then came oblivion—blank, utter and profound.
At last consciousness returned from the unplumbed depths of slumber, called back by the howl of a dog and the cry of a child. The boy’s first impression was terror—he was in the wood again and the dogs were after him. He started up, but there were no trees above his head. There was a fire beside him, now almost dead, and bright moonlight pouring in at the windows. Gradually everything came back to him. But through everything he heard the dog’s howl of pain and the child’s pitiful crying—voices too, rough and angry, drowning the one weak, pleading voice. He had scarcely heard a word from the little girl they called Babette, yet he knew the voice was hers. They were misusing her. Then they should do it no longer! All aglow with the ardor of protection, and of championship, the little knight-errant of ten years old sprang to his feet, and rushed forth to the rescue, following the direction of the voices.
The threatening of snow had passed away, and the open space behind the hut lay clear in the moonlight. A man in a queer dress, something like a soldier’s, stood in the midst, belaboring with a stout stick the struggling, howling dog. The dog’s master, instead of interfering to protect him, held the creature, and Babette was held also, not too gently, by the strong arms of her mother.
“What are you beating that dog for?” cried the boy, bounding in among them. “What has he done?”
“Eh, who’s that?” said the man with the stick, letting it fall to the ground.
“Little wretch, how camest thou here?” cried the dog’s master in a rage; “I’ll shake the life out of thee.”
He seized the boy by the shoulder as if to do it, letting go the dog, who darted into the wood and was lost to sight. “What is it all about? Who is he?” asked the other man, whom they called “Gabelou.” The woman said something in a low voice. “No matter,” returned the Gabelou aloud. “He’s not one of us. He’s a foreigner. He has seen too much. There’s but one thing to do. Darcheau, knock him on the head.” “That’s sudden,” said Jean Darcheau, the owner of the hut. “After all, what does he know?”
“Perhaps a little too much,” growled the Gabelou. “We use children to outwit the gens d’armes. Why not they, to spy upon us? Let’s look at the little rascal.”
He took the boy roughly from Darcheau and looked at him from head to foot. “Thou art no peasant’s son,” he said at last. Then to Darcheau: “Make an end of him, comrade. ‘Tis safer so. The dead tell no tales. What art afraid of, man? Who ever comes here? And his clothes alone will pay for thy trouble.”
“‘Tweer a hanging matter,” Darcheau muttered.
“An’ it were? We may swing any day for the morsel of salt we sell our neighbors, for their good and our own. We may as well swing for something better while we are about it. Bring the ax, old man—I’ll do it myself. And with one stroke. No need to mangle the poor little wretch.”
The boy was sure his last hour had come. He was whiter than the moonlight, he trembled all over, his very teeth were chattering. Yet he did not cry, or beg for mercy. He came of a race that knew how to die, and had been early taught that he might have to put his knowledge to the proof. He looked up to the stern face of the Gabelou. “If you are going to kill me,” he said, trying hard to steady his voice, “let me pray first to the good God.”
“The good God never comes into these parts,” said the Gabelou, with a laugh. “But say thy prayers, child, an’ thou wilt.”
“Stop!” cried the old woman suddenly, seizing the Gabelou by the arm, while Babette ran to her father and clasped his knees.
“Oh, father, don’t let him be killed!” she pleaded.
“Listen, his name is Philippe. Like brother’s.”
Jeanne Darcheau’s plea for mercy was more convincing.
“You men are fools,” she said. “You cannot see what is under your noses. When good luck comes in at the door, you pitch it out through the window. ‘Tis the good God, as this boy calls Him—or the devil, for aught I know—who has sent him ready to our hands, in the room of poor Philippe. And I warrant me he will be worth a vast deal more. He looks quick enough—”
“To hang us all, I dare say,” said the Gabelou. “I tell you he’s no peasant’s son. I hate his kind, and they hate us.”
“Don’t be too hard,” said Darcheau. “And, after all, we want a boy. Babette there is too young and weak, even if she had the sense for it. But with a smart lad like that, and Jacquot well trained, we could run the business properly.”
“He must have a good pair of heels to have got as far into the forest as this,” Jeanne Darcheau threw in. “But if he should try to betray us,” said the Gabelou, with a significant look at the boy.
“Then we kill him—sure,” Jeanne added, coolly.
“Sure as tomorrow’s sun,” agreed Darcheau.
“Now let’s see what he is fit for,” said the Gabelou.
“Stand there, boy, and answer me. Speak truth, or I kill thee. What is thy name?”
“Philippe Montel.”
“Already thou liest. That is not thy name.”
The boy raised his head proudly. “My father never lies,” he said. “And he told me that was to be my name as long as we were in France.”
“So thou wert leaving France? I begin to see daylight. With whom? With thy father?”
“Oh, no!”
“Then with a guide? Who was he?”
“Guillaume Montel, our steward.”
The Gabelou thought a moment; then he said, not unkindly: “Look here, boy! Thou didst ask leave to say thy prayers. Down on thy knees and do it! Say an ‘Ave’ too for the good of us all, since we are not much in the way of praying.”
But the boy stood motionless, and his white lips murmured “No.”
“Ah, I thought so. Though here in Auvergne we are not troubled with such cattle, I know thou art a Huguenot from Languedoc, trying to get out of the country against the king’s edicts.”
The boy flung himself on his knees in an agony of terror. “Oh, monsieur,” he cried, “don’t—don’t give me up to the cure! Don’t, I pray you, for God’s sake! Kill me rather with your ax.”
“What ails thee at the cure? Not that I know any good of him, for a spy and a sneak that he is, ever wanting to run with the hare and hunt with the hounds. But that he devours small boys like a wolf have I never heard. What would he do to thee?”
“Send me to the Jesuits’ school. The people said it at the inn.”
“Then he shall not get thee. ‘Tweer pity to make a monk or a priest of a bold little lad like thee. Stand up now; show thyself a lad of mettle, and thou shalt be safe with us. Peste! We are in the same boat, after a fashion. Thy folk will not have the king’s religion, ours will not have the king’s salt. And if the religion be but half as dear a bargain as the salt, perhaps they are in the right of it.”
The boy stood up and looked in the face of his questioner, bewildered, yet relieved. “Then you will not give me up?” he said.
“Truly not, if thou art faithful. But if thou goest about to betray us, say thy prayers first—in French or in Latin as thou wilt—for I promise thee a short shrift after. But I think thou wilt be a good comrade.”
“I will try,” said the boy, frankly, in the glad rebound from a terrible fear, and without the least notion to what he was pledging himself.
“First you must give me your true name. Then you must take the oath.”
“What am I to say?
“Put thy hand in mine and say after me ‘I swear’—but stop—thy name first—thy name?”
The boy hesitated.
“Speak at once, boy. And the truth, mind, else thou goest to the cure.”
With a flushed face and kindling eyes, though his lips trembled still, the boy said boldly, “Gaspard Charles Louis de Montausier.”
A laugh from the Gabelou and the two Darcheaus drowned the last syllables. It was no pleasant laugh, but a jarring sound, half bitter, half scornful, and wholly unmirthful.
“What a mouthful of names for one poor little rat!” sneered Darcheau.
“And only one pair of hands among them all!” said Jeanne.
“Well,” pursued the Gabelou, “the child did not christen himself—if, being a Huguenot, he was christened at all. And as hereabout there are none of those people, he must have come from Languedoc—probably from the Cevennes or the Vivarais. All the safer for us. Come, Gaspard, and the other three or four of you, take your oath, if you don’t want to say your last prayer. We can’t wait, or we shall lose the moon. Here, thy hand in mine. Say after me—”
Bewildered, frightened, and almost exhausted by all he had undergone, the boy obeyed, and repeated after the Gabelou a string of words one-tenth of which he did not understand. They belonged mostly to that tongue of many climes and ages called “Thieves’ Latin,” and contained frightful curses, which all unwittingly he called down on his own innocent head, should he prove false to his new comrades.
“That is done,” said the Gabelou. “Now art thou a true faux saunier. Come, friends, let’s go in, and Jeanne will give us all a cup of her good red wine—the boy too, to wet his oath. But what are we to call him? Gaspard?”
“Too long,” growled Darcheau.
“Then Philippe, which he gave us first.”
“No, I don’t choose that,” said Darcheau, with an unexpected touch of feeling.
“How would Gap do?” asked the Gabelou. “What dost say thyself, boy?”
“I don’t care,” he answered, with a weary, broken look on his childish face. “Call me what you please.”