“The brave man is not he who feels no fear.”
NIGHT had fallen upon Toulouse—a chill October night, dark and cloudy. At the Bassin de l’Embouchère, the place of embarkation for the grand Canal of the South, a large well-appointed barge lay moored. The master and his men stood on the deck, waiting. Two of them carried torches, which shed a fitful light on their own forms and faces, on the planks laid down for entering the boat, and sometimes, as the wind swayed them, on the dark waters beneath.
“Here they come!” said the master at last. “Stand back, men, in your places.”
The approaching party could be seen well, and was well worth the seeing. The torches they carried shone upon the bright brass helmets and showy uniform of the men from the Marquis de Broglie’s regiment, with their captain at their head. In the midst walked two men in civilian dress. One was a capitoul of the city, in his robe of office; the face of the other was shaded by a broad-leaved hat, and he wore a scarlet mantle.
“But where’s the prisoner?” the master asked; and Tardif, who stood beside him, echoed the question.
There was a brief pause at the landing place, where the capitoul took his leave. Then the party, with the rhythmic step of trained soldiers, marched across the planks. The face of the man who wore the scarlet cloak was visible for a moment. Tardif felt his arm grasped, and heard Gaspard’s excited whisper, “‘Tis he!”
“Hush, fool!” said Tardif. Yet he could scarce contain his own surprise. No one could have looked less like a prisoner. There were no fetters on hands or feet to mark his condition. He wore the scarlet mantle—the dress of a well-to-do citizen traveling for pleasure—in which he had been arrested. His step was firm, and the toil-worn face, with its look of care and travail that Tardif so well remembered, had a quiet, peaceful expression, as of one going calmly about his usual work, with a heart and mind at rest.
Gaspard involuntarily moved a step forward as he passed. Claude Brousson looked at him, and their eyes met. Was there a gleam of recognition in those of the pastor? It seemed unlikely, but Gaspard held to his heart the belief that there was.
The party had supped on shore, and they soon settled to their rest in the cabin, which was given up to them entirely. On these canal boats, which were towed by horses, there was little work to do; it was sufficient if a couple of men kept watch at night, besides those on the towing path, who were driving the horses. The captain stretched himself in a sheltered corner, wrapped in his cloak, and the others did the same. But Tardif, who was steering, remained at the tiller, and Gaspard, to whom sleep was impossible, volunteered to share the watch. He crept to Tardif’s side as soon as all was still, and they talked together in whispers.
“Strange they have not bound him,” said Tardif. “But everyone says M. Pinon is a gentleman. Eh, M. Gaspard, what’s that you are saying? Pray for him? Yes, of course you do. But I” —he shrugged his shoulders expressively.
“Oh, but Tardif, you can pray.”
“Don’t you know I have given up aves and paters this many a year? But I can work, if you give me a chance. Not that I see a chance, mind you. I have taken stock of everything. Eleven men fully armed—and the boatmen too. No, they are not the fools to run any risks with a prisoner of such value.”
After a while, the two dropped into silence, each busy with his own thoughts. The night wore on slowly. Everyone except themselves seemed to be fast asleep. Some stir was occasioned at one time, by the passing of a lock, but after a little shouting and a moderate delay the boat resumed her silent, sleepy course through the dark still waters, and those on board resumed their slumbers, making up for lost time, as Tardif remarked to his companion.
“I wonder,” said Gaspard, “if he can sleep.”
“I wager he does,” Tardif answered. “Sleep is a strong master, who will be obeyed.”
“Think you there will be the chance of a word with him in the morning? If there were—”
“Hush, boy. Look!” Tardif interrupted.
Someone came slowly up out of the cabin, and he wore a scarlet cloak. His step was noiseless on the deck; not one of the sleepers stirred hand or foot, until he came where Tardif and Gaspard were. Tardif stepped back in his surprise, his hand still on the tiller.
“Stay, friend,” said Brousson, who thought perhaps that he was going to give the alarm. “I am as safe here as in the cabin. I have but come up to breathe for a few minutes the fresh air of Heaven. It is stifling downstairs.”
“Sit there, monsieur,” said Tardif, pointing to the seat Gaspard had left.
“Thanks, I had rather stand.” He was looking earnestly at the face of Gaspard, upon which fell the light of the lantern hanging at the mast. “My boy, we have met before.”
Gaspard was at his feet in a moment. “Oh, monsieur,” he said, “do you remember the wood of Besogne, the lair of the brigands, and the poor boy who carried the salt, and to whom you spoke so kindly?”
“Yes, my son, I remember all. I remember that the poor boy who carried the salt was the son of my old friend Gaspard de Montausier. Stand up, and let us talk together.”
“Do you remember, monsieur, the last word you said, not to me but to my friend here who came to look for me? You said, The wolf has not found him, but I think the Shepherd has.”
“And has He?” Brousson’s hand was on his shoulder. Half unconsciously they both turned, and stood leaning over the bulwark of the boat. They could dimly see the quiet water of the canal beneath, and beyond it the towing path, and the shadowy forms of the trees that fringed it. Low, and with a bowed head, Gaspard answered, “I think He has.”
“Then I have one thing more to thank Him for when presently I see His face. Tell me about it, dear boy.”
Gaspard’s voice was hard to find. The cheerful words moved him more than sad ones would have done. He faltered, “I can’t think of it now, for sorrow.”
“Nay, my child, do not grieve.” The hand which had rested on his shoulder came round him now. “Be brave. Remember that afterward thou wilt hear of me, but I shall not hear of thee. Speak, therefore, of thyself. For I think thou art God’s messenger, whom He has sent to me with a cup of water. He has been teaching thee since we met. How?”
“Your words, monsieur, burned in my heart. I could not stay there—I could not go on carrying the salt. Oh, I tried, indeed I did perhaps too long. The winter passed, the spring came, and there I was, still. For I knew just nothing of the world, outside that wretched hole, and I had no plan for getting away. I thought and thought—sometimes till I feared my head would burst. And I prayed. I knew I was changed, that I was changing every day. I had come to myself. I was not Gap the smuggler anymore, but Gaspard de Montausier.”
“And how, at last, didst thou get away?” asked Brousson, eager for the story.
“I had your letter, monsieur, to your friend at Montpellier. Besides, there was another reason. I wanted to find out the brother of my poor little friend Babette, the only living thing that cared for me in that horrible place—unless it were the dog. But my great reason was, that once at Montpellier I thought I could someway get abroad, and join my parents. So I went, trusting God to help me—and He did. At the Fair of Mende, He sent me the truest and best of comrades—Tardif, who is with me here.”
“Was not he one of the robbers I met you with?”
“Yes, but—I cannot understand him, monsieur—I don’t know if he understands himself. I think he was never the same man since that night he met you in the wood. He wants now to help some of our people out of the country. He says he can make more money that way than by robbery or smuggling. But I think it is not all that.”
“Was it when you went forth, not knowing whither, only because it was right to go, that you knew the Shepherd found you? If any man will do His will, he shall know of the teaching.”
“It was after that, monsieur. We went to Toulouse to find M. Berbier, who had left Montpellier and gone thither. He was most kind: when he saw your handwriting there was nothing he would not do for me. He sent us to Montauban, about a matter in which he thought Tardif could give valuable help, and there—But, monsieur, the story is long.”
“And my time is short. It would not be dealing fairly with my guards, who are most kind and courteous, to give them an unnecessary alarm. Tell me, therefore, of thyself.”
“We heard of an Assembly at a place near Negrepelisse. And as Tardif thought it might help us to find those we were seeking, we went. The preacher was the young man who was with you that night in the wood.”
“Ah, Henri Portal! And what said he?”
“I wish I could tell you, but I can’t. His words have gone from me—I can scarce recall one sentence as he said it. This, indeed, I know: he spoke of Our Lord—how he loved us—”
“Loved? Was that his word, Gaspard?”
“No, monsieur, his word was, ‘He loves us.’ He made me feel He loves me, wants my love, my service, my life, my all. And I said, I would give Him all, because He first gave all to me. Then I came to His Table, with the rest, to show it. And I think He was there.”
“My son—and my brother too in Him—I thank God for thee. Now listen, dear boy. His servant must not offer Him a worship which he thinks to be against His mind. But neither must he seek, uncalled, the martyr’s lot. Therefore, if thou canst find means to leave this land—”
“For God’s sake, sir, take off that cloak!” a rough voice whispered in his ear, and a hand pulled hastily at the scarlet mantle. Brousson turned round in surprise, and saw the eager face of Tardif close to his own. Absorbed in their talk, neither he nor Gaspard had noticed how near the bank Tardif had managed to steer the slow-moving barge. Anyone could step across. Now, having locked the tiller, he stood at the side of Brousson.
“The Lord hath delivered you out of their hands,” he said, his low voice vibrating with exultation.
“What do you mean, friend?”
“There is but a step between you and freedom, as you see. Every soul on board save ourselves is asleep, sound as a church. One moment, and you are on shore, and what can harm you then? The man with the horse will not; if he tries, I can deal with him. I will go with you, and the lad can follow us. Only take this cloak of mine in place of yours, which cries out, “Here I am.”
He would have pulled it off without ceremony and thrown it into the water, but Brousson’s hand arrested him. “My brave friend, I thank you right heartily. But this thing I cannot do.”
“Why? In God’s name, why? There’s no danger. Only be quick!”
“Nay, friend, it is impossible. I have given my word?”
“Sacre! what does that come to? An extorted promise is no promise. And how many broken promises is a man’s life worth, I should like to know!”
“Not one.”
In hot anger Tardif turned away. “Talk to him thou, Gaspard,” he said. “Thou and he may understand each other. I don’t!”
“Dear father in Christ,” Gaspard pleaded, his low voice thrilling with emotion, “can this thing be really wrong? God help me, I cannot believe it. And think what it means for us all!”
“I can think only of the word I gave, and the God who heard it,” said Brousson.
Tardif broke in passionately: “Listen to me, sir,” he said; “you refuse this chance—you stay here. Very well. Tomorrow you go to Montpellier. You are judged by M. de Baville, and of course condemned. Condemned—so much you know; but—may I ask—do you know to what?”
“I do.”
Tardif came close, closer still, until his face touched the other’s and his lip was at his ear, as he whispered through clenched teeth, “Do you know how long men take in dying—on the wheel?”
“I do.”
“Then you are not afraid?”
“I am afraid,” was the unexpected answer.
Tardif drew back with the surprise of it.
“Understand me,” Brousson went on; “not of death, but of what may come before it.”
“Yet you go to meet it, not because you must, but of free choice?”
“There is no choice for me. And also this I know: when the time has come, I shall be delivered from all my fear. For One will stand by me who has Himself been through the agony. I shall overcome in Him. But now, friends, I ought to go. For any moment some of the guard may wake and miss me, which would be neither for my credit nor for your safety. Tardif, brave and kind friend, I thank thee for thy generous thought. God reward thee. God bless thee, and bring thee safe to His Heaven. I charge thee to meet me there. Farewell.”
The rough, hard, trembling hand of Gilles Tardif met the sensitive, finely-molded hand of Claude Brousson in a strong, close grasp, which made an era in the life of the man who still had life before him. Then another hand was slipped silently into Brousson’s, and the two went together towards the cabin stair.
“Gaspard,” said Brousson, “help that man. He is worth it. I pray of thee to commend me also to my good and generous friend M. Berbier, who has shown thee so much kindness. Tell him I thank him; and I pray God to bless him, here and hereafter. And thou, dear boy, may God bring thee in safety to thy loved ones in England, and at last, with them, to the better Home in Heaven.”
“Dear father, will you give me a word of blessing also for Elene de Fressinieres, who was with us in Toulouse, and whom M. Berbier and Tardif are trying to save?”
“Elene de Fressinieres? Oh, yes; I knew her mother, and I heard of her death. God bless her—God bless you both with the blessing of Peace. Now farewell; for look yonder, the boat’s captain is stirring beneath his cloak. We must not be found together.”
A few minutes later, Tardif, who had resumed his place at the tiller, was rejoined by Gaspard, weeping bitterly. To the question, “Is all safe?” he answered, as soon as he could speak, “Yes, they are sound sleepers.”
“Gap,” said Tardif, after a pause, “I have seen many desperate men—men who feared neither God nor the devil, nor—what is more to the purpose—neither cold iron nor hot fire. Yet never one of them made me know what it means to be a brave man like M. Brousson when he said, ‘I am afraid.’”
Presently, with his disengaged hand, he took something from beneath his vest, and flung it into the water. Gaspard started and looked up. “A file,” said he, answering what had not been asked. “I took it with me—for, little hope as I had, one never knows what chance may do on a journey. But it was not wanted. Chance did better for him—and he would none of it! What a man wills, a man must. But the pity of it! Why, in God’s name, could he not have stayed in Germany or England, where he might have preached his religion on the housetops, if he would?”
“Because he loved his brethren, who are left here in the wilderness as sheep without a shepherd. And because he loved my soul and thine, Tardif.”