“There is a power within me which withholds,
And makes it my fatality to live.”
—BYRON
THE return of Isabeau and Elene to their hut in the ruins was delayed by the illness of Mere Durand. Hardened by a life of labor and privation, and strengthened by an indomitable will, the old woman had borne up bravely through all the fatigue and excitement of the day and night. But when the great event was over, the inevitable reaction followed. She was brought with much difficulty to the nearest Protestant dwelling, a lonely farmhouse called Coque-lebas, and there she collapsed utterly. It had been her great wish, she said, to hear again the preaching of the Word, and to partake once more of the Holy Supper. Now this was granted, it was time for her to die. Only, she added, she could not help wishing it had been dear old M. Bayle who administered, instead of that peasant lad from the mountains.
However, after taking some warm soup and enjoying several hours of sound sleep, followed by a nourishing meal, she announced her preference for dying at home, and her intention of returning there on the following day. So determined was she, and so much better did she appear as that day went on, that in the evening two young men of the farmhouse carried her in a chair to the bridge, and she was able to walk the rest of the way, with the help of Isabeau and Elene.
After their return to the hut, whilst Isabeau was occupied with cares for her mother, Elene noticed a scrap of paper which someone, during their absence, had pushed under the door. It bore no superscription, and just the following words: “Mademoiselle, you ought to leave the place where you are at once. There are those who are seeking for you, under directions from an exalted quarter. Think of a great black dog, and you will remember the writer of this warning, and believe that it comes from a friend.”
“A great black dog!” said Elene to herself. “What have I ever had to do with black dogs?—Oh, I remember!—That kind priest who saved us, and took us to the convent! The ‘exalted quarter’ must mean the bishop. He would be angry with the nuns for letting me escape, and would have me hunted. There is nothing for me now but to go away and hide myself.”
Reflection only increased her conviction that the case was urgent. If she were tracked to her present resting-place, the consequences to Isabeau and her mother, who had hitherto escaped so well, might be frightful. So she made her plans, with the promptitude and decision which nature had bestowed and the stern teaching of peril had developed.
She had slept soundly the previous night, and she felt now as if she should never sleep again. There was little opportunity of consulting Isabeau, even if she had wished to do so, for Mere Durand was ill and feverish, and for most of the night her daughter was unable to leave her. Not until near morning did the continued silence convince Elene, who sat watching in her own little chamber, that both were really asleep. Then she stole noiselessly into the kitchen. Knowing how welcome Isabeau would make her to the black cloak she had worn at the Assembly, she put it on again, and also put in her bag a supply of rye bread and soft strong cheese. Pencils were not then in common use, and Isabeau’s one pen and tiny ink-horn she could not find. She had to content herself with pinning the note of warning to the window-curtain, where Isabeau could not fail to see it. Then, with a silent prayer that God would bless this dear friend, and reward her abundantly for all her loving-kindness, she stepped out into the darkness. She intended to go first to the farm of Coque-le-bas, and to obtain from its kindly inmates, if not shelter, at least direction and guidance for the way.
For the third time within four months she went forth not knowing whither she went. The danger was greater than ever it had been before, for she knew herself pursued; yet she had never felt so calm: the Presence which had drawn so near in the great Assembly was with her.
Nevertheless, the great physical exertion of that night had told upon her. She crossed the bridge and went for some distance into the open country; then she was forced to sit down to rest; and, spite of her urgent peril, sleep overpowered her—sweet sleep.
When she awoke she felt much better—sat up and looked about her. She was on the slope of a grassy hill, looking over a wide field, at one side of which was what seemed like a disused quarry. It was full daylight now; the sun had risen, and the light and heat were cheering. The place was quite solitary; not a living thing was in sight. “I am alone,” she said to herself, “and yet—no; God has not left me. He will keep and guide me.”
Then her thoughts turned to the Assembly, and all she had heard, and seen, and felt there came back to her mind. Scripture words of comfort quoted by the preacher, and fragments of inspiring psalms chanted by the great congregation, crowded upon her memory, until the place seemed no longer lonely, but filled with high companionship—even with the very highest.
Thus heartened, she could eat and drink; she even felt the need of it. She took out her bread and cheese and ate with good appetite; then began to wonder if there was no stream within reach at which she could quench her thirst. As she stood looking about her, someone approached her from behind, but his footsteps were so silent on the grass that she was not aware of him until his shadow fell over her.
Turning, she saw a very old man, very tall and of dignified appearance. As he came forward and stood before her, she saw also that his hair was snow-white and very long, and his beard equally white and longer still, reaching almost to his waist. Both hair and beard were well cared for, and his short cloak was of good material, though frayed and faded. So was the just-au-corps beneath it, and his long silk stockings were full of holes. He wore a belt of tanned leather, in which was stuck a long knife. His sunburned face was a mass of wrinkles, but his eyes were marvelously bright and piercing; Elene felt them go through and through her.
“Mademoiselle,” he said—and she at once recognized the voice of a man of culture— “I see you have food with you. Will it please you to give me a little? I can pay for it, and pay well.”
Elene could see that his form was worn and wasted, and his eyes, with all their sinister brightness, had a hungry look in them. Still, if he had money, why should he be in want of food, and that so near a town, where it could be easily procured? A possible explanation occurred to her—he might be a hunted fugitive, a brother in the Faith, perhaps even a pastor.
He observed her hesitation, and said, with a touch of scorn, “Mademoiselle need not look so doubtful. Does it not occur to her that I am the stronger, and could help myself if I chose?”
But at the semblance of a threat Elene’s spirit rose.
“Monsieur,” she said, “I do not give it to you through fear or for payment. But because I think you are hungry, I give it to you for the love of God.” As she spoke, she handed him the remainder of her bread and cheese.
“I take it,” said he, “for the love of bread, not for the love of God.”
“But you will give thanks to God for it?” said Elene longing to know if her conjecture was the right one.
“I give thanks to my God,” the stranger answered, as with a will he fell upon the food, which quickly disappeared.
Elene noticed that he did not make the sign of the cross, which looked as if he were a Huguenot; but then would any Huguenot have said, “Not for the love of God”?
When he had finished, he asked abruptly, “Where do you come from?”
“From Negrepelisse,” was the cautious answer. “And whither are you going?”
“I was going to a farmhouse called Coque-le-bas.” “Do they expect you there?”
“They do not.”
“That is just as well,” said he, with a smile, half scornful and half cunning.
Elene began to feel uneasy. Anxious to find out, without betraying herself, what he really was, she said, “Tell me, monsieur, I pray of you, what you meant just now when you said, ‘I give thanks to my God.’ Do we not all worship the same God, whether we be Catholics, or of the people called Protestants, or Huguenots?”
A wild discordant laugh rang out upon the air. Elene began to fear that a madman was beside her, alone in that solitary place. Yet the answer was quiet enough. “Tell me your God, and I will tell you mine.”
The thought of Him she was challenged to confess brought back her courage. She answered, with an upward look, bright with hope and confidence, “My God is the All Great, the All True, the All Merciful. So merciful, that when I cry to Him now in my heart, I know He hears me, and will keep me from all danger.”
“Will He? Aha!—that remains to be seen. And yet, perhaps, to so fair a worshipper—But I promised to tell you of my God. He is very great, and very powerful. In fact, the whole earth obeys and serves him. Especially the great of earth, kings, princes, nobles of the Sword and of the Church, who govern all the rest. Yet they do not know him. They think all the time that they are worshipping the other God, your God, ‘le bon Dieu,’ as they call Him. But they deceive themselves. Listen, mademoiselle. It is a great secret; but I will tell you all about it.” His voice sank to a mysterious whisper; and he came quite close to her, his lips almost touching her ear. With a new sensation of fear, she drew away from him instinctively.
He perceived it, and drew away also, a little. “Pardon me, mademoiselle,” he said, with the tone and air of a polished gentleman, “I alarm you. There is no need—at present. I pray of you be calm and listen to me.”
“I am listening. But, monsieur, I pray of you, do not blaspheme the good God.”
“I cannot, even if I would. For—listen to me—the good God is dead.”
“Poor soul!” thought Elene. “He is mad—quite mad.”
“Ah, that surprises you. But I will tell you more. Once upon a time—long, long ago—before the making of the world, there were two gods, the good God and the bad one, or as we say now, God and the Devil. But as the ages went on they disagreed and fought together; which indeed, in the nature of things, they were sure to do. The bad god was the stronger. He overcame the other one, and killed him. So he is reigning now.”
“God help you, poor lost soul! How terrible for you to think such things!” Elene exclaimed, her fear of him overcome by horror and pity. He was certainly a madman, but he seemed to be a harmless one.
He gave a kind of low chuckle; and then, with an air of solemn and superior wisdom, went on, “But the beauty of it is, the world does not know anything about all this. Men say, and think too, that ‘le bon Dieu’ has gone on reigning in His heaven for all these ages; as secure and as supreme as His image King Louis the Magnificent, the Sun King, the God upon earth, who is reigning in Versailles. But ask yourself if that is a likely story. Le bon Dieu, I was taught in my youth, gave us the Ten Commandments. Who thinks of obeying them now? King Louis, forsooth!”
“Still, everyone knows he ought; and that if he does not, God will punish him,” said Elene.
“Unless he contrives to buy Him off by paying money, or by punishing other people in His name, as King Louis, the Pious and Magnificent, tortures Protestants here, that God may not torture him hereafter for breaking those very commandments in the face of all the world. But a young demoiselle of quality, as I see you are, in spite of your dress, cannot he expected to know anything about these things. Still, even in your short life, what have you seen—what do you see—about you? Wrong, oppression, cruelty. Men slaying, imprisoning, misusing each other, and all in God’s name! At least let them tell the truth. They will find, I think, when they come to die, that it would have saved them something.”
The madman—for now she did not think, but know him to be such—fixed his glittering eyes full on her face, and went on, with the air of one who had reasoned out the whole subject; “Would not any king on earth punish most severely those who, though forced to obey him, persisted in denying him his name and his title, and ascribing his honor and glory to another? So will my lord and king, whom men in their foolish speech call the Devil, punish with fire and brimstone those who deny him; while he will honor and reward the few who, like myself, open their eyes to the truth, see the facts of the world as they are, and give their homage and their worship where it is justly due.”
“Oh, how horrible! This is worse than madness,” thought poor Elene. “He must be the wicked hermit Sceur Adele spoke of in the convent. She said he worshipped the Devil.” She tried to speak, but her throat was dry, no sound came from it.
“Do you ask me,” he continued, “the nature of that worship? In what it consists?”
With a great effort she answered, “No; I do not. But I ask you to consult some learned man, some bishop, if you will, such as Monseigneur Flechier of Nimes,” naming one who was held in repute for his learning and his eloquence, even by Protestants.
Again came that harsh, discordant laugh, jarring every nerve in her body. “Thank you, mademoiselle, for the kind suggestion! You would wish me to lay my head on the scaffold—if I were not noble, I should say my limbs on the rack or the wheel. For know that the worship of the Devil, like all other worship, consists in prayer, adoration—and sacrifice.”
A new fire, as he spoke, came into the glittering eyes. One bony hand stirred uneasily, showing nails like eagle’s claws; then was clenched again, as if with strong effort.
“Sacrifice!” Elene repeated.
“Why not? The Apostle Paul said, of old, that the heathen sacrificed to devils. They were wise in their generation.”
After a meditative pause he resumed, still gazing on Elene, whom his wild eyes seemed to devour: “They sacrificed sheep and oxen, for they knew no better. As if the Power behind the world could be satisfied with these! Men are wiser now—witness the hecatombs of Huguenots offered up by wheel and gibbet, by imprisonment, torture, starvation. The great truth has been learned at last—man must offer man. The Deity—call him God or Devil as you will—accepts at his hands no meaner sacrifice.”
Elene shuddered shrank together. What was coming next? The madman’s tones however had grown quieter. His words were as the words of one who mused, holding converse with himself. “By man, I mean of human race. Young, innocent, stainless must the victim be—none other will my Lord accept. It is long now since I served Him with burnt offering and with sacrifice. I have offered up a child—I have offered up a young lad. But better still, more precious and more acceptable, were a young maiden.”
He stirred, moved a little nearer, and the clenched hand opened again. Elene, with a desperate effort, raised her head, and looked him in the face.
What she saw froze her heart. He glared on her with frenzied eyes, and features transformed with passion—the true passion of the maniac, of the savage beast, of the human ghoul—the thirst for lifeblood hot and fresh from its source. Slowly, silently his right hand was moving towards the knife at his girdle. Elene ran for her life. In vain. A minute more and the inevitable happened—the madman’s clutch was on her throat.
“God is here—He will not let him kill me,” she thought, as the sharp steel flashed before her eyes. Next moment she had fallen to the ground with a violent shock. After that, she knew no more.
Returning consciousness brought with it the sense of pain, a sharp pain in her left shoulder, which in her fall had struck against a stone. She was still so dazed that this pain was the only thing she thought of. Brave girl though she was, she moaned heavily, and murmured, “My shoulder—oh, my shoulder!”
“You are in pain, mademoiselle,” said a kind voice at her ear, and looking up she saw a young face full of concern bending over her. “May I try to raise you? I think I could make you more comfortable.”
“Oh, where am I? what has happened?” she cried, as thought and memory began to return, and with them a thrill of terror.
“You are with friends, and quite safe,” said the kind voice again.
“Am I? Then that man—what has become of him?” As if in answer, a sudden terrible cry, a shriek of anguish and despair, smote on the ears of both. The lad sprang up, and ran as if to the help of someone, but presently returned again. “It is all right,” he said.
He found that Elene had raised herself without help; but the deathly pallor of her face alarmed him. “I must leave you again,” he said, “just to fetch a cordial.” “Oh, I am afraid—there was an awful man here, a maniac. If he should come back—”
“That I swear he will not, mademoiselle. Those my friend Tardif deals with seldom do.”
Gaspard ran down the slope and across the field, where the trampled grass showed plainly that Tardif and his foe had dragged each other in their deadly conflict. He and Gaspard had come upon the scene just in time. Seeing far off a man evidently threatening a woman, they ran to the spot, and Tardif dealt the madman a blow which made him loose his grip. At the same moment, Gaspard forced the knife from his hand.
“Look after the girl,” shouted Tardif, and locked his strong arms round his foe in a fight for life or death.
Each had the same thought. A little way off was the old disused quarry, which both were trying to approach, because each hoped to precipitate the other into it. They were well matched in courage, in cunning, and in fury; but one was in the prime of life, the other old, and in failing health; one was noted for strength and agility, the other had only the abnormal powers lent him by frenzy or fanaticism.
So when Gaspard approached, Tardif stood upon the height, breathless but victorious, gazing on the tumbled heap that lay, without sound or motion, on the stones beneath. He pointed to it without a word.
“Thou hast killed him!” said Gaspard.
“I hope I have,” returned Tardif the remorseless. “How is the girl?”
“Just conscious—I fear she will faint again.”
Tardif took a flask from his pocket and gave it to Gaspard. “Go and tend her,” he said, briefly. “I have work to do here.”
Left alone, he looked down upon his victim with grim satisfaction.
“Aha, M. de Rignac,” he said, “so this is the end of you and your devilries, and your human sacrifices to boot! You have gone at last to the god you worshipped, and the world has in it one bad man the less. No danger, though, of the breed running short! But whatever may become of your soul, your body is wanted still—or at least your clothes. Fine gentlemen like you do not run away from justice with empty pockets, and they have always friends somewhere to refill them for them. But the good Louis d’or, if useful, would be somewhat hard to get rid of with safety—for a man with the law at his heels. Not so much chance of spending them without rousing suspicion. Softly, though, Tardif, my lad, thy fortune is not made yet. If the rascal had a secret hoard, he may well have buried it in some of his hiding-places—which may be far enough from this.”
Before these reflections were finished Tardif stood beside his victim. Having easily satisfied himself that he was quite dead, he began a thorough search of his person. The clothing, which had once been rich and costly, was worn and faded, and in some places torn. It was now twenty-six years since M. de Rignac, the devil-worshipper, the child-murderer, had escaped mysteriously from the hands of justice. No doubt since then he had received secret supplies of money and clothing from his kinsfolk or friends, who were anxious to prevent the scandal of a public execution, but these must have been very uncertain and intermittent. Of late years too, as his malady progressed, the cunning and resourcefulness of earlier days was probably forsaking him, and he was beginning to forget, or omit, the careful disguises and other precautions he used to adopt.
Tardif feared at first that his search would be in vain. The short cloak was first torn off. That certainly concealed nothing. Just-au-corps and culotte were equally unproductive. But beneath the ragged shirt of fine linen, still marked with the “crown”—the sign of nobility—was a belt of soft leather much heavier than it ought to be. With an exclamation of joy Tardif pounced upon it, cut it open with his knife, and speedily extracted a goodly heap of shining Louis d’or. How he loved the look of them! He threw himself upon them, as if even there it was necessary to hide them from view. Once and again he counted them carefully. There were just forty-eight, no less and no more. But he would not leave the place until he had made a most exhaustive search for the other two which, as he thought, should have been there by rights. “The villain must have spent two of them,” he concluded, disregarding the greater possibility of his having had a hundred to begin with and having spent fifty-two! “But I cannot fool over them all day.” So saying, he concealed the belt and its contents about his person, and betook himself to the last and least agreeable of his tasks—that of disposing of the body, which he covered with a heap of stones. Then he joined Gaspard and Elene, who were now sitting together talking quietly. She leaned back against the bank, looking very pale and shaken.
“My brave friend,” she said, gratefully, extending her hand to Tardif, “I have to thank you for saving my life.”
“I have done few things in mine that gave me greater satisfaction,” he returned, thinking more of the killing of the man than of the saving of the maiden. “Is mademoiselle much hurt?”
“Oh, no; I was stupid enough to faint, being not long recovered from a fever. My shoulder was hurt a little, but it is now much better. M. de Montausier has put upon it his kerchief, soaked with fair water from the brook nearby.”
“Would I could have done much more, to serve Mademoiselle de Fressinieres,” said Gaspard, with a smile.
“Mademoiselle de Fressinieres! Then indeed we are in luck!” cried the delighted Tardif. “Does mademoiselle know we have been scouring the country in search of her, and of the infant heir of her noble house?”
“She does; I have just been telling her,” Gaspard answered for her. “And she has told me, what we suspected already—and what you, as I, will be grieved to hear—the babe is dead.”
“It is indeed a great pity,” Tardif said, and he said no more. This was quite as well, since his thoughts ran rather on the handsome reward he might have earned through him, and the deplorable fact that his inheritance would probably go now where honest folk would get no good of it, than on the fate of the child himself.
“I have told mademoiselle,” said Gaspard, “that the soldiers are still at the Château Mauzac, and that it is said Madame de Fressinieres has not yet conformed.”
“Yes; and very hard it is upon M. le Baron,” said Tardif. “The poor old gentleman hears Mass every day, and does all else he can to make his peace; yet there they are, and there they stay, for how long Heaven only knows.”
Elene’s low voice, not without a tremor in it, broke in here.
“But I pray you, M. Tardif, tell me what has become of that dreadful man?”
“He will never trouble you more, mademoiselle. He lies at the bottom of you quarry, as dead as the stones in it.”
“Quite dead? You are sure of it?”
“Why does mademoiselle want to know?”
“Because,” said Elene, though with evident reluctance, “if by any chance he lay there wounded—dying, perhaps—we ought to do something for his suffering body and still more unhappy soul.”
“Mademoiselle has a kind heart, but she need not trouble herself either about the body or the soul of M. de Rignac. For the first—as I told you already, he is dead as King Pharamond. For the second, he himself disposed of it long ago. When we were in Montpellier, we heard all about him, and were shown the place where his house used to be, in the very street M. Berbier’s kinswoman lodged in—the Rue des Augustins. Gaspard, you remember it all?”
“Yes,” said Gaspard, “and a horrible story it is. He murdered a poor little servant boy, and afterward a young child, a god-son of his own, to offer in sacrifice to the devil, whom he worshipped. He was condemned to death by the Parliament.”
“Ay, and had he been a poor man, the wheel or the fire would have been his portion. But, being a nobleman and rich, he had friends, and was allowed to sneak off somehow, and hide himself. ‘Tis said he roamed about the country, dwelling in caves and desolate places, and sometimes making believe he was a holy hermit, to get folk to give him what he wanted. Now, after six-and-twenty long years, this is the end of him. I, Gilles Tardif, have rid the world of a monster. I hope it will be remembered to me as a good deed when the balance is struck one day.”
“It ought to be remembered before that,” said Gaspard.
And Elene, who knew much more of the world than he did, added the remark, “No doubt there was a price set upon his head. Might you not tell your story to someone in authority, and claim that price?”
Tardif shook his head emphatically. “Pas si bête. No offense, young lady; but seeing that my own past will not bear inspection, as Gaspard here very well knows, and seeing that the dead man was a noble rascal, while I am only a base one, I should more likely get my reward on the rack or from the hangman than out of the coffers of M. l’Intendant. No, no! Let sleeping dogs lie, and sleeping villains too. We have got ourselves to take care of which will give us quite enough to do. Let us think about it now.”
“But tell me first,” said Elene, “how you and—and—M. de Montausier came to find me?”