“His honor rooted in dishonor stood.”—TENNYSON.
AUTUMN, the third autumn after the coming of Gar. reigned in the wild wood, and her reign was full of glory “Purple and gold and crimson like the curtains of God’s Tabernacle” shone the fading, or rather the kindling, leaves. Though autumn flowers had displaced those of summer, still the long grass had its store, and of more than one kind. A stiff breeze was blowing, bringing showers of leaves about the feet of Gap. He strode on quickly, with Jacquot at his heels, whistling a tune, but stopping every minute to note something of the forest, some track of wild creature or rustle of bird in the leaves. The tune was not that of Psalm or hymn, but of some drinking song that he had learned from Tardif. His voice was clear and melodious, but he kept it low, not only from the habit of caution drilled into him, but because there had been recent signs of renewed activity on the part of the Gabelous (the genuine, not the sham ones). They, with the militia, or gens d’armes, who assisted them, were liable to intermittent attacks of zeal, during which they patrolled the forest paths with more or less diligence, causing what the Darcheaus considered very vexatious interruptions to honest business. They had never yet arrested anyone in that district; and though they made a great show of trying to catch the brigands who supplied the salt, they were always unsuccessful, as the villagers sometimes shrewdly suspected they meant to be.
Under a fine old elm tree—quite a friend of his, for he had personal friends among the trees—Gap stopped to look up through the thinning branches. In the nesting time a large bird had built there; she was gone now, but the empty nest remained. A fancy took him to look into it. Why not? He unstrapped the bag of salt from his girdle and laid it on the ground, set the faithful Jacquot on guard, and swarmed up the tree, an easy task to him. He had one hand already in the nest, when, looking down for a moment, he saw distinctly at some distance the glimmer of steel. Yes, and there were men in blue—men with arms and bayonets—coming through the forest track, and quite near too. The nest was forgotten. One desperate slide and scramble, and Gap was on the ground again. With rapid fingers he loosed the cord that bound the second bag of salt round Jacquot’s neck, and bade the dog “go home.” That trusty comrade looked first at him, then at the salt, asking as plainly as eye could do it— “Am I to leave my charge?” “Go home, Jacquot,” Gap repeated. “Gabelou is coming. Go home!” The tone of the last words was not to be trifled with. Jacquot set off at a run.
Then Gap took up both the bags, and started with flying feet in a contrary direction. He plunged through the trees till he reached an ancient oak, well known to him, which had a great hollow in its massive trunk. The mouth was more than Gaspard’s own height from the ground. Taking one of the bags of salt by its knot in his strong white teeth, he leaped up, caught the broken wood with his hands, and dropped in the bag. Now for the other! Just as he snatched it up, he heard a voice close at hand crying, “Halte la! Au droit!” They were coming—coming this way. They would see him! Well for the salt! But for himself? If he were found there all would be lost. He leaped up again, dropped in the second bag, heard the dull thud as it fell upon the other, and then scrambled up and dropped in after it himself. The hole was deeper within than he thought. He fell far down, feeling the sides in vain for something to cling to. At last he found himself in grim and utter darkness, standing on the salt, and with little more than standing room. “Peste!” he said to himself; “the cursed thing must be hollow down to the roots. What shall I do?” Stretching up his arms he groped eagerly, madly, despairingly for any hold for foot or hand which might help him to raise himself. Nothing of the kind! Just as he was giving up the effort, he heard outside the tramp of the gens d’armes. “Better be taken by the Gabelou than die here in the dark,” he thought, and a cry for help was trembling on his lips.
But he checked it, just in time. They would guess he had the salt and would search for it where he was.
The keen sense of honor, which was the birthright of this little “Gentleman of France,” had been transformed for the present into the instinct of faithfulness to his comrades and safe keeping of the salt. So he held his peace, nor let moan or cry escape him until all was still again.
Dead silence and black darkness reigned about him. Once and again he stretched up his arms, but could not even touch the hole above. He leaped up far as he might, but could hear, feel, see nothing save high above him a little gleam of light. “I can’t get out,” he moaned. “I can’t get out! They will never find me here. I must die.” Terror and anguish overwhelmed him, he wept and sobbed, like the child he still was.
After a while sobs and tears ceased. After all, he told himself; he need not despair so soon. So his frantic struggles began afresh. Then came cries, wild, piercing, frenzied. Perhaps someone might hear him, and come to the rescue. Or it may be that he only voiced his terror, through the instinct of the animal and the child.
His efforts exhausted him. He ceased to cry or struggle, ceased to think, almost ceased to feel. He even dozed a little, or else he was passing into a kind of stupor. Once he heard, or dreamed he heard, the barking of a dog. But he was too weary, or too dull, to be roused. The merciful veil of oblivion was falling over him, and it seemed as if sight or sound of earth would never break it more.
Something round and hard falling upon his shoulder aroused him. What was it? Where was he? He stirred, tried to look around him—but he was in thick darkness. He felt strangely weak, and all his limbs were cramped and aching. “It must be midnight,” he thought, “yet here I am, not lying down, but standing on my feet!” Still only half conscious, he stretched up his hand, and tried to grasp the thing that had struck him. He got it; and so acceptable was the ripe apple to the senses of touch and smell that it was at his lips in a moment. Then he knew he was horribly hungry; and presently the whole truth came back to him. He was imprisoned in a hollow tree; he could not get out, or make his presence known to anyone; he must die.
Still, apples do not grow on oak trees. Nor had they wings to fly about like birds. That one could not have fallen by chance into the hole where he was. Someone must have thrown it. The thrill of hope revived his failing senses. Once more he cried for help, but his voice was thin and weak. It was not his own at all.
Time passed—how long he did not know. Then came the barking of a dog, loud, sharp, repeated. “Jacquot!” he cried. “Jacquot! I am here!” Another sound followed. Someone with an ax was hewing at the half-decayed wood to enlarge the hole.
“Wait,” cried the voice of Darcheau, “I am getting at thee.” So he was, and working with a will. In a few minutes more, strong arms were stretched down to him and, not without difficulty, lifted him up out of his horrible prison. He was laid on the grass, not ungently. He saw the blue sky and the white fleecy clouds over his head.
But grass and sky and fleecy clouds were all turning round him. Still, he tried to raise himself, and to point to the tree. “The salt—in there,” he murmured; and then fainted quite away.
When he recovered consciousness Babette was hanging over him, and Jacquot capering about them, barking with delight. But the first thing he noticed was Darcheau laying beside him on the grass first one then the other of the bags of salt. With his dull spirit stirred to all the feeling of which it was capable, the man looked down upon the boy, and said approvingly, “Tu es bon camarade.”
When they got home and Gap had been regaled with food and wine, Babette said to him, “It was Jacquot and I that did it.”
“Tell me,” said Gap.
“Jacquot came home to supper, and we thought thou wouldst follow. When thou camest not, he grew restless, and began to bark and whine. He wanted to go in search of thee, but they would not let him, and shut him up. They were afraid, for they knew the Gabelous were about. So was I, for, oh, Gap! I thought they might have caught thee. All the night long I lay awake, and heard Jacquot’s pitiful whine. At last, in the gray morning, I crept out of bed, went to the shed and opened the door. There he stood, trembling all over, and asking me as plain as a Christian to let him out.
I said, ‘Gap! Gap! Jacquot, go seek Gap!’ He was off like an arrow, and then he turned back for me. I tore after him, sore put to it not to lose him among the trees. However, I caught him up—not at the oak, but at a big elm, a good way off. He smelt about it, as if puzzled; then all at once he seemed to find your track, and made straight for the hollow oak. Plain as a dog could speak he told me you were there. I threw in the apple I had with me, to show you help was coming, and then ran for father.”
“Babette,” Gap said, solemnly, “thou hast saved my life. Tell me what thing in the world thou dost wish for most, and, by my head! I will get it for thee.”
Babette did not answer him; but Gap knew pretty well by this time what wish lay deepest in the poor starved heart of this untaught child of the forest. He must find Philippe for her; or at least he must discover whether Philippe was alive or dead.