“Let facts be facts, and life the thing it can.”—CLOUGH
MONSIEUR BERBIER spent most of that night in anxious thought, and when Tardif appeared next morning, he had his plans ready. So he shut the door upon them both, told him to be seated, and began frankly enough, “I have heard from Monsieur Gaspard the kind of work you propose to undertake. He is prepared to vouch for your faithfulness, ‘with his life,’ as he says. And as he is a gentleman, of a most honorable family well known to friends of mine, his word is sufficient. I have therefore determined to invite thine aid in a matter of much importance and considerable difficulty—if, having heard all, thou art willing to undertake it, and if, with regard to the terms, we can come to an agreement.”
“ ‘If monsieur will be good enough to open his pack,’ as the peddlers say, we shall know better where we are.”
“Couldst thou contrive to smuggle out of the country, and deliver up safely to his friends in Geneva, or some such place, a mere babe—an infant in arms?”
Tardif mused. “It would be difficult—very. But it has been done, therefore it can be done. And if it can be done, Gilles Tardif is the man to do it. Of course there must be a woman, a nurse.”
“That goes without saying. There is money in the business. The boy is an heir.”
“But to what does that serve, monsieur? If he is sent out of the country, it is a case of confiscation. That is scarce what his kinsfolk want.”
“Thou art a shrewd fellow, Tardif. No but there is something else they dread much more. If he is not sent, they will not be allowed to keep him. He will assuredly be taken from his mother, who is a Protestant, as the father was also, to be brought up a Catholic. But this is not the worst of it. I have reason to think he will be given in charge to the next heir, who is his guardian along with me, and has practically all the power, having the ear of Monsieur l’Intendant. His friends dread this of all things, and for that matter so do I. For he is a man of very indifferent character, and who knows how he will deal with the poor child?”
“I understand, monsieur. If the child is taken abroad, the other guardian will have broken an egg and got the shell for his pains. Still, the egg will go to the king, who is little like to pay me for breaking his own Edicts—except with a halter.”
“Have no fear. The grandfather is wealthy. The mother, too, has money. They are eager to secure the child’s safety, and the mother, especially, to have him brought up in her own religion.”
“But if they are Protestants, they may be beggars, or prisoners, by tomorrow’s sunrise.”
“The grandfather is a new Catholic; but the mother and sister have not yet conformed, though they may be forced to do it any day. Hitherto, the grandfather has been able to protect them. If he sees a chance of getting the babe, and perhaps the sister too, off in safety, he will not tighten his purse-strings.”
“He had better not, if he wants the thing done. As I said before, it is difficult. Remember, monsieur, my life is at stake.”
“Well, man, name thy price.”
Tardif deliberated; apparently seeking inspiration from a bust of Apollo which stood on the top of the doctor’s bookcase, though in fact he never saw it.
Berbier waited for him patiently, till at last, stooping over the doctor’s chair, he said something in a low voice; to which Berbier answered with something like a start, “That’s a long price.”
“The price of my life,” said Tardif, “which is worth more to me.”
“No doubt, my man; but remember it is not the loss, but the risk, we pay for.”
Tardif stood out for his own terms, and some sharp bargaining followed. “I must consult the child’s friends,” Berbier said at last.
“As you will, monsieur. I am not keen upon the job. Besides the risk and the difficulty, there is another reason.”
“What reason?”
“If, now, it were a man or a woman, or a grown boy or girl,” said Tardif, bringing his words out slowly, and with a sort of hesitation, “it might be worth the trouble. One might think one was saving the man from the galleys, the woman from prison, or the poor children from mishandling. But a babe in arms! He has no religion. What harm if they do make a Catholic of him? He will take as kindly to the Mass as to the other thing. And I, knowing little of either, think it is no matter which.”
“And I, knowing a good deal of both, am disposed to agree with you,” said Berbier, with a smile. “Gilles Tardif, I think thou art a philosopher.”
“Let not monsieur call me that, if he pleases. For his servitor, Fredon, says he is a philosopher. And he and I are not stuff of one pattern.”
“Ah! poor Jacques is a clever lad. But his learning is rather like strong wine taken on an empty stomach. It has got into his head and set it spinning a little. But that is my fault. Now, as for thee, this is what I will do. I will give thee a letter to Monsieur de Mauzac, the child’s grandfather, and thou canst conclude what bargain thou wilt with him. He may make things easier all round by finding two or three more who are anxious to get out of the country, and able to pay for it. He lives near Montauban, and knows all the Huguenot gentry of that neighborhood.”
“But monsieur has said that he himself has been ‘converted’; is it safe to trust him?”
“Perfectly, my good man. As you will see, you being something of a—well, of a man of sense—when I tell you how he was converted.”
“How, monsieur?”
“The Bishop of Montauban sent for him, and some other Protestant gentlemen of his diocese, men of mark and heads of families, as if to hold conference with them. But behind the tapestry in his hall of reception he hid a number of stout lacqueys, guardsmen and the like. When these gentlemen entered, the men in hiding leapt out on them, and tried to force them to their knees. No easy matter, for though taken by surprise, they were not weaklings, and they made a gallant resistance. Some were kneeling, some were knocked down, and some still changing blows, when the good Bishop took up his crozier, made the sign of the cross over them all, muttered a few words in Latin, and then informed them that they were now and henceforth good Catholics, members of the one true Church, and spiritual sheep of his fold.”
“And were they?” Tardif asked pertinently, with a laugh at the doctor’s story.
“Certainly as good Catholics as a whole regiment of dragoons could have made them. Perhaps they owe something to Monsieur de Cismond for sparing them the terror and the misery that mode of conversion would have caused them. Now, I have only to exhort you to prudence. I think you are a man of intelligence, and will understand the need of it.”
There followed some talk about details, which need not be recorded. Then Tardif was dismissed, to amuse himself in the town until the following morning, when Berbier would have letters ready to send with him to Montauban.
Gaspard had been waiting with some impatience for the end of the interview, at which he had not been invited to “assist.” Berbier sent for him as soon as he was alone. He asked “Monsieur Gaspard” to be seated, and spoke to him throughout with the almost exaggerated deference for rank which was characteristic of the time. “I have pretty well-arranged matters,” he said, “with your companion—your servant I suppose I should call him.”
“Not at all,” Gaspard returned, smiling. “Rather the other way. I always do what he tells me.”
“That is wise, for the present. He is a shrewd fellow, and knows what he is about. I have set him on the track of a business which I think he may find very profitable. He goes tomorrow to Montauban. Now we must think of you.”
“I go with him, of course.”
“Not ‘of course.’ You are welcome to stay here with me as long as you will.”
“You are most kind, monsieur,” Gaspard said, with feeling. “But how could I burden you so? And what should I do here?”
“You would not burden me. I should give you work, and at the same time see to your education. Listen, Monsieur Gaspard. I know that by birth your place in the world is much higher than mine; but the fact that, as a Protestant, you are proscribed and outlawed, may be taken to alter things a little. You are in danger, I can protect you. You need a home, I can offer you one.”
“But, monsieur, I cannot understand. Why should you do all that for me?”
“For three good reasons. Firstly, I like you. Secondly, I think you could help me in ways wherein I need help. Thirdly, and this reason is the strongest, he whom you call Monsieur Beauclaise asks me to do all I can for you.”
Gaspard was silent, plunged in thought. What a translation from purgatory to Paradise Berbier’s offer would have seemed to him, had it reached him in the hut of the Darcheaus! Even now, the temptation was strong. Rest, safety, ease—and all these amidst surroundings which bore at least some resemblance to those he had been used to in his childhood! But no, a thousand times no! The thing was impossible. He must crush down the very thought of it—trample it beneath his feet. He spoke out bravely, “I thank you, monsieur, I thank you with all my heart. But this thing you offer me would mean—to look no more on my father’s face, or my mother’s.”
“It need not. The times may change—will probably change—so far as to allow a greater measure of liberty to those who desire to leave the country. You may well wait for such a change, and take advantage of it when it comes.”
“But in the meantime I must give up my religion.”
“Is it so certain you have a religion?”
Gaspard held his head up proudly, “I am a Protestant,” he said.
“Indeed? And what do Protestants believe?”
The head, which was raised so proudly before, drooped now in perplexity. At last Gaspard was obliged to say, “I—scarcely know.”
“Then why refuse a comfortable home, and run yourself into divers and sundry great perils, for you scarcely know what?”
“My father knew,” Gaspard said, slowly.
“Do not be in haste to decide,” Berbier answered, in tones of real kindness. “Take a day to think over it. Tardif does not go until tomorrow.”
“I thank you again, monsieur, more than I can say,” said Gaspard, and relapsed into silence. The thinking business, evidently, was beginning already. Berbier, to give him time, took a volume from his shelf and began to read.
The silence had lasted long enough for him to become absorbed in the adventures of Abauzi—the Arab physician who visited France in the ninth century when Gaspard rose from his seat, came over, and stood before him. “Monsieur,” he said, “I can decide at once, if you will tell me one thing.”
“Certainly, if I can.”
“You are his friend, and know him far better than I. If Monsieur Beauclaise were here, what would he tell me to do?”
Monsieur Berbier felt as if caught in a trap. Every word that fell from Gaspard intensified his longing to keep, and to attach to himself, this splendid boy, whose ignorance would only make him more delightful as a pupil, and who might in the end become to him all he had hoped to find in Jacques Fredon—hoped, and been disappointed! Fredon was like ice, clear and cold—clear in intellect, but—oh, how cold in heart! Not cold towards his master—he did the lad that justice; he loved him as much as he knew how. But Gaspard would be like sunshine, light and warmth together. Still, the answer to his question was not doubtful for a moment. Berbier could lie, upon good cause shown, as stoutly as any man, but he could not lie to Gaspard—nor about that other. At last he said evasively, “What think you he would say, Monsieur Gaspard?”
“I do not think, I know,” Gaspard answered, firmly. “He would say ‘Be true.’ Monsieur Berbier, I am grateful for your kindness, but—I go with Tardif to Montauban.”
“My boy, I am very sorry; still, I can say no more.”
A silence followed. It was on Berbier’s lips to say “Why not stay with me till Tardif has made his arrangements, then let him, if successful, come back and fetch you?” But he knew this would have been impracticable; if Gaspard and his intended guide were once separated, the chances of their meeting again would be very uncertain. After a while he spoke. “Since you have decided thus, I will tell you something I think you ought to know. The business about which he is going to Montauban is the possible conveyance out of the country of a child—a babe in arms. That child is the heir of your father’s friend, Monsieur de Fressinieres.”
“Ah!” cried Gaspard, breathless with interest. “But how come they to be there? They are of the Vivarais, like ourselves.”
“I told you Monsieur de Fressinieres was dead. But I suppose you never heard that, a year or two before, he had married a second time?”
“I did not even know Madame de Fressinieres was dead. I am sorry. I remember her very well.”
“It must have been soon after you left your home. Huguenots have short lives nowadays. Sorrow and fear are maladies for which yonder books hold no cure.” (He glanced at the volumes on his shelves.) “Why, under the circumstances, Monsieur de Fressinieres married again, is not for me to say. But I knew of his friendship with the De Mauzacs, which had lasted since he studied in his youth at the Protestant College of Montauban. Perhaps he thought that, since Monsieur de Mauzac had conformed, his daughter would be better elsewhere. However that may be, he married her, and only just lived to see his little son.”
“And his daughter, Mademoiselle Elene?” Gaspard asked eagerly. “What of her?”
“She is with her step-mother, at Château Mauzac. So far, they have not been molested. Monsieur de Mauzac is wealthy, and he has managed things well, with the connivance, as I suspect, of the bishop. But now the symptoms are ominous. There is even a rumor of troops to be quartered on De Mauzac, to make him keep order in his household. That would probably mean that the babe would be torn from his mother, and consigned to a guardian of whom I have the very worst opinion. While, as for the mother and the sister—”
He stopped, for of the horrors that crowded into his mind it was impossible to speak. But his look and silence told enough. Gaspard sprang from his seat, “Oh, monsieur,” he cried, “let us go—let us go now and save them! Tardif will know what to do. He will help them to escape from the château before the soldiers come.”
Berbier laid his hand on his arm. “Gently, my boy, gently. There is no need for such haste. The thing is but a rumor as yet; perhaps but a warning, sent by some secret friend. But, were it otherwise, you could not save them.”
“Oh, Tardif can do something. He thinks of all sorts of expedients. Perhaps that is just why God has let him come with me.”
“Think so, if you like. Though I have not found—” What he had not found, however, Gaspard was not to know. He went on, “If Tardif can do anything, he might try to save the child and the demoiselle. There must be a nurse with the child, who would serve as a companion for her. But for Madame de Fressinieres, it could not be thought of. Her health is far too frail; the hardships of the journey would kill her. Monsieur Gaspard, what has come to you? You look transfigured.”
So he did. His eyes kindled, his cheeks glowed. A new tide of life and purpose and power was coursing through his veins. He seemed taller too; henceforth he looked, and he was, no longer a gallant boy, but a brave young man. “Oh, we will go,” he said; “we will save them—God will show us how.”