“The hearth―the hearth is desolate, the bright fire quenched and gone,
That into happy children’s eyes once sweetly laughing shone;
The place where mirth and music met is hushed by day and night―
Oh, for one kind, one sunny face, of all that there made light!”
RENÉ PLANS resisted a temptation to which many others yielded―that of following the captive throughout his long journey, to the very Bates of Montpellier; ―and he missed thereby a strange and interesting sight. “For everywhere,” the historian tells us, “the weeping, threatening multitude thronged the passage of the confessor; and everywhere the pastors of the districts he traversed restrained the vengeful sorrow of their flocks. So that his journey of fifty leagues presented the extraordinary spectacle of an immense and continually recruited concourse of people, who never ceased to address the most touching farewells to the young martyr, and to honor him with an escort of tears and sobs.”
But René thought he could employ himself better than in paying his hero this useless honor. “Ask those who love me to care for my sister and her children,” Majal had said to him. And he knew that these would now be left, not in desolation only, but in utter destitution. Their possessions would be confiscated; their homestead probably razed to the ground. Many, it is true, would rejoice to afford them shelter and assistance, but they could not, with any safety, remain in the neighborhood of St. Argrève, scarcely even in the Vivarais. They might, with too much reason, apprehend further persecution. Moreover, a heavy fine would be levied on all the Protestants residing within a certain distance of the place where the pastor had been apprehended. This would seriously cripple the resources of these poor people, and, indeed, reduce some of them to penury. Besides, many had suffered in what was called “the massacre of Vernoux,” or were still liable to be “troubled” on account of their efforts to rescue the minister. It was therefore with a purpose that brought him strength and comfort that René took his way to Mazel. He did not expect that any of the late occupants would still venture to linger in the home that had been so happy; but he hoped to hear tidings in the neighborhood which would enable him to find them.
It was evening when he passed once more under the leafless boughs of the orchard, and drew near the porch, where the long row of neat beehives still bore witness to the thrift and industry of the late owners. He was surprised to see a light in the window of the guest chamber, where, not quite two months ago, he slept, fearing no evil. Someone, perhaps, had been left in charge of the house. It could do no harm to ascertain. He knocked at the closed door, seldom closed in other days. After a short delay, soft, light footsteps approached, the door was half opened, with evident caution, and a child’s voice inquired, “Is it thou, Babette?”
René knew that voice. “Dear mademoiselle,” he said, “do not be afraid. It is a friend―René Plans. May I come in?”
Then the door opened wide, two little white hands grasped René’s large brown one, and Madeleine said joyfully, “Ah, René! is it you? Come in; the mother will be glad to see you.”
René followed her into the large room which had been so lately the gathering-place of a cheerful family circle. It was now empty, dark, and fireless. But Madeleine presently brought, first a lamp, then as much firewood as she could carry.
“Babette is gone to St. Argrève for medicine,” she explained. “But I will light the fire. I can do it quite as well.”
René, of course, relieved her of the task, asking anxiously, “Is it Madame Meniet who is ill?”
“No; it is the grandmother. She has lain in fever―a strange kind of fever―ever since that night. But she is better now: she slept today, very quietly, for full two hours. Then she called me, and bade me sit beside her, and repeat a psalm.” The child’s words and manner showed how entirely her mind was absorbed in the details and interests of the sick room.
“Where is Claude?” René asked.
“Mother sent him away, and me too, because she feared we might be carried off by the soldiers. She could not go, on account of the grandmother, who was so ill it would have killed her to leave the house.”
“Was Madame Meniet, then, left quite alone?”
“No; Babette stayed with her. But the grandmother hates Babette, and will not let her wait on her; so, you see, I had to come back.”
“Did Madame Meniet send for you?”
“Oh, no! Indeed, she was sorry when first I came―but what else could I do, René? Mother wanted me. I asked cousin Martin to bring me home; and he did, the very next day. He is always so good.”
“Will you let me stay and help you, dear Madeleine?” René asked gently. He was kneeling before the fire arranging the wood, and the rising flame flickered on his brown, handsome face, as he turned half round to the “fair, pale child, with a faded cheek,” who stood watching him with a look of thought and care pathetic in one so young.
“Oh, thank you,” she said, quite simply. “I should like it very much. You could do many things for us, you are so strong. Besides, the grandmother likes you. She said you were ‘bien gentil.’ Perhaps she will let you sit with her sometimes, then mother will sleep a little more.”
At that moment a step was heard on the stairs, and the child ran to her mother. René heard her say, “Mother, here is René Plans―come all the way from his home in the mountains to see us.”
Ere René could think how to tell them he had not come from his mountain home, but from a place far more interesting to them, Madame Meniet entered the room.
“You are so strong,” had Madeleine said; yet, strong as he was, he trembled as he rose to meet her. He had seen many tears lately, even upon manly faces. There were no tears in those large blue eyes, which looked the larger for the dark circles round them, for the hollow cheeks, and white, wasted features; but there was a patient sorrow, deeper than tears. The lamplight showed silver threads amongst the fair brown locks, half covered by the simple white coiffure. Had years passed away since René saw her last? Years were not needed―or even weeks. More than once has a single night been known to change brown hairs to grey.
She stretched out her hand to René, and thanked him for coming to them in their sorrow; then she commended Madeleine for lighting the fire, and quietly set food before him.
It was a silent, sorrowful meal. None dared to speak of what filled all hearts. Nor could René summon courage even to say that he came from Vernoux. It was a relief to fetch wood for the fire, once and again; to admit Babette; to re-fasten the door; and to protest that he desired no accommodation for the night except a cloak or sheepskin rug. But for such welcome interruptions, the heavy atmosphere of that voiceless grief would have been stifling.
A simple question of Madeleine’s broke the spell at last.
“How did you hurt your arm?” she asked, glancing at the bandage, which he had not yet been able to discard. “The hurt is nothing,” René answered. But, with the words, the tide of suppressed feeling rose suddenly, and choked his voice. So had he spoken, standing in a prison room, to receive the pastor’s generous, fatal message. Two messages had he borne for him; one entrusted to him beside his father’s grave, and delivered in the place where he sat now: the other―He covered his face, for the tears flowed quickly, and would not be restrained.
Annette laid her hand gently upon his. “You, too, have shed your blood for us,” she said. “Is it not so?”
Then René told his story, making some things clear to her of which hitherto she had only heard confused rumors. It cost him much; but if he could have understood the blessed relief tears bring the burdened heart, he would have been amply repaid. Before he ended, Annette was weeping, for brother and for husband, as she scarcely hoped to weep until she knew that man had done his worst, and that the worst he could do was over.
Majal’s self-sacrifice, which wrung the heart of René with such bitter pain, brought only comfort to hers. It seemed to her, as to the pastors, quite natural.
“We ought to lay down our lives for the brethren,” was her brief and simple comment.
Annette’s affection for husband and for children formed the warp and woof of her web of life, sober in coloring, soft, warm, and strong in texture. Her love for her brother was the thread of gold embroidery flashing through it, and consecrating it all to nobler purposes and finer uses. Losing, in one hour, husband and brother, she lost at once the staff of life, its common daily bread; and the joy of life, its royal festive wine, “that maketh glad the heart.”
But were both indeed lost? For Majal, nothing more was to be hoped or feared. The Intendant of Languedoc, the Chevalier Lenain, was a stem judge; very hostile to the Protestants, and greatly feared by them. But in no case could mercy have been expected. Never but once, since the Revocation, had mercy been shown a captive pastor. Not many months before, a young and promising minister was betrayed and imprisoned, yet not led forth to the scaffold; for in an evil hour he was overcome by the fear of death, and the solicitations and promises always liberally employed. Then, “like the lost Pleiad, seen again no more,” Duperron vanished; and his name was seldom uttered, save in prayer, by those who once had loved and honored him. They were soon to hear that he was dead―in the morning of his days―of a broken heart. But such tears as were shed for him should never dim the eyes of Majal’s sister. “‘He dwells in the secret place of the Most High,’” said Annette; “wherefore should I doubt that he shall ‘abide under the shadow of the Almighty?’”
But for her husband there remained just hope enough to torture the heart and keep it restless. It was almost certain he would be condemned to the galleys, and for Life. Yet criminals such as he occasionally found mercy. After weary years at the oar―perhaps five, seven, or ten, doing the work of twenty or thirty upon frame and mind―grace was sometimes extended to the worn-out “forgat,” and he was allowed to go home and die amongst dear familiar faces. And in the meantime, much might be done to soften his cruel captivity, and to make the separation between those that loved each other a little less absolute than that of the grave.
Next morning Annette quietly explained to René, “We have much to be thankful for, as you see, my friend. The little ones might have been taken, and I also. Indeed, we were in great danger. But whether the Commandant of St. Argrève (who was summoned hither at midnight, so soon as my brother was apprehended) dared not encumber himself with women and children, or whether my brother’s pleading touched his heart I cannot tell. He pleaded for us nobly that dreadful night; and the Commandant heard him with respect and attention, because he at once acknowledged himself a minister of the Gospel, and answered every question put to him with perfect frankness; save only that he would give no clue by which his registers might be found, as others would have been compromised thereby. However that may be, we were left here; and only required to give our parole that we would not remove any part of my husband’s property. They ought to have sealed whatever they thought valuable, and placed a guard upon the house; but it was evident they had not a man to spare. I should have gone away, for the children’s sake; but the mother-in-law’s illness rendered that impossible. So I sent Claude and Madeleine to relatives at Désubas, our birthplace. How my little comforter came back, you know already; but Claude is there still. The farm laborers, who are all zealous Protestants, and more or less compromised by what has happened, are dismissed, of course; and some of them have thought it necessary to conceal themselves. But our good Babette refused to leave us; and this was God’s providence, for I could scarce have managed all, had I been left quite alone. René, if indeed you can stay with us until it is possible to remove the mother, you will do us great kindness. Your presence here will not, I think, be dangerous to yourself, since you are a stranger in the neighborhood. Still, your relatives ought to be considered, especially your sister. I would not make a sister’s heart anxious.”
René hastened to assure her that his sister would be safe and happy in the care of the Brissacs, and that he had told Jacques to prepare her for a lengthened absence on his part. “But, madame,” he inquired, with a boy’s abrupt frankness, “whither do you intend to go when Madame Larachette has recovered?”
“To some of our friends,” Annette answered wearily, even with a kind of indifference. One day’s burden of pain and perplexity was enough for one day’s power of endurance.
“Madame,” said René, with evident eagerness, restrained by a reverence that made him seem almost timid, “Madame, I know a place where you would be safe, and free from all alarms. Near Tanargues, in the Hautes Cévennes, on a mountainside, there is a solitary cottage, a league from the little village, itself far out of the world. Our curé is a kind, quiet, careless man. If he gets his dues, and the fines for the children who absent themselves from school, he rarely troubles anyone.”
“Is it then to Trou, to your native place, that you advise me to go?” asked Annette. She thought the advice good, though it came from such young lips. For many reasons she wished to leave the neighborhood. More than the persecution of enemies, she feared the imprudent kindness of friends, who might easily endanger themselves, and could not benefit her. And gladly would she escape the too painful sympathy with which every eye would look upon Majal’s sister in the district where Majal was so passionately loved. After some thought she said, “Suppose we do it, for the present―how could we live?”
“There is the cottage I speak of, very much at your service, madame. It is not large; but there will be room enough for you all. It was built by my father’s brother.”
“Your home, René?” Annette interrupted—not without emotion. “Do you, then, propose to receive us into your home?”
“Do not think me over-bold, madame,” René said, with an air of diffidence not unbecoming to him. “But I think it is God who has put the thought into my heart. For I prayed earnestly, when I had to obey M. Majal and bear that message that cost us so dear, that God would give me, even yet, something to do which would comfort him, if he knew it. And this would. You will be quite safe, madame. No one will trouble you, or the children. And if my father can see it from heaven, he will be well content.”
“But René, your sister?―not to speak of yourself?”
“My sister is promised in marriage to Jacques Brissac. They are to live in the village, with Jacques’s parents. And I―” René paused and hesitated. A very short time, if measured by weeks and days, had passed away since he said, with strong confidence, “I shall be a minister.” Now he drew back in trembling awe, and took the shoes from off his feet; for the ground was holy. “And I,” he resumed—content to occupy for the present a far humbler place― “I shall till the field, store the chestnuts, keep the sheep. And in the evenings, if you will permit me, madame, I will learn of you. For you have many good books, and you understand them. While I have been so poor a scholar that now I can only read and write, and repeat Ostervald’s catechism.”
“Ah, my son! the books were taken from us that sad night. The whole house was searched and rifled; and, at last, the cachette was discovered. Not that it mattered. No man shall ever be the worse for any written or spoken word of my brother’s. Dear René, I understand your generous kindness. My heart thanks you, more than my lips; and I think the plan you propose for us a good one. For a little while,―only a little while, a time of waiting―until God shows us what we ought to do. But we must stay here, if permitted, until the mother is strong enough to bear a journey, and until tidings reach us from the South.”