CHAPTER XXVI
DOOMED
Remembering that his horse (which he would require ere long to carry him to the mountains, since although, as he had thanked God again and again, Urbaine was in no danger, Baville would doubtless desire him to obtain her release at once) had been left in the stables behind the Porte des Carmes, Martin made his way there. Went toward the gate, resolved to fetch it away and place it in some more secure spot than the one in which several dragoons had tied up theirs ere dismounting.
Reaching the yard, he found the animal; found also that the dragoons must have preceded him, since now all their horses were gone excepting one, which, by its caparisons and trappings, by the great gold sun upon the bridle, the throat-plume and saddle-flaps, as well as by its fleecy bear-skin saddle-cloth, was plainly an officer's.
"A fine beast," he mused as, ere he removed his own horse, he held a bucket of water to its mouth, "a fine beast. Too good to be employed in carrying its rider to such work as he and his men have been about to-day."
As he thought thus he heard the heavy ring of spurred boots upon the rough flags of the yard, also the clang of a metal scabbard-tip on them, and, glancing round, saw coming toward him a young dragoon officer, his face flushed, perhaps with the heat, perhaps with the business that he and his troops had been recently employed upon.
"Peste!" the man exclaimed as he came up to his own steed and began unfastening the bridle from the staple to which it was attached. "Peste! Hot work, monsieur, this morning, what with the glaring sun and the flames from the mill. N'est-ce pas, monsieur? Yet, yet I wish those heretics had not been of the feeble. It is no soldier's work slaughtering babes and women and vieillards. My God!" he broke off, exclaiming, a moment later, "So it is you, villain!"
"What!" exclaimed Martin, astonished at this sudden change of speech and regarding him as though he were a madman. "What! Villain! To whom does monsieur apply that word?" and the look upon his face should have warned the young man to be careful of his words.
"To whom," the other sneered, however, "to whom? To whom should I apply it but one? Who else is there in the stable-yard but you to whom it would apply? And if there were fifty more, I should still address it to you. Also the word murderer."
"To me! Are you mad that you assault a stranger thus with such opprobrium? Answer, or, being sane, draw the weapon by your side."
"Which is that which I intend to do. Yet I know not whether you are fit to cross blades with. You! You!"
"You will know it shortly," Martin said quietly, as now he drew his own sword and stood before him, "unless, that is, you have some very tangible explanation of your words to offer."
"Explanation! Explanation! Oh, avec ça! you shall have an explanation. Are you not the fellow who sat on the bridge when De Peyre's dragoons rode into Montvert after the murder of the Abbé du Chaila? Are you not the man who led the attack on the Intendant's daughter, dragging her from her carriage, carried her off to the mountains, to your accursed attroupés; doubtless assisted in her murder? Answer that, maraud, and tell no lies."
And even as he spoke he struck at him with the gauntlet he held in his hand, muttering, "I loved her, I loved her, and I will slay you." Then said again, "Answer ere I slay you."
"I will answer you," said Martin quietly still-so quietly, yet ominously, that, had the man before him not been a soldier, he would have been well advised to flee from out the yard. "But it must be later; when I have stretched you at my feet for your insolence. You shall have the explanation when I have paid you back that blow, when your soul is hurrying to join your victims of this morning."
His blood was up now. The abusive words of the soldier; the sting of the heavy gauntlet still upon his cheek; perhaps, though that he scarce recognized, the feeling of hate against this swashbuckler for having dared to dream of loving Urbaine-all combined to make him resolute to kill the man before him. Also the horror, the disgust, that every effort he had made, every danger he had run, should be subjected to such misinterpretation, added to the accusation, if any addition were needed, that doubtless he had murdered her. For the first time in the course of this unholy war his weapon was unsheathed, about to be used. It should not find its scabbard again till it was wet with this man's life blood.
"Have I been mistaken?" the soldier said, astonished by his words, above all by his calm. "Made some strange error?"
"You have. No greater in your life than that foul blow. Put up your weapon before you, or I run you through as you stand here. Quick, en garde. I am neither 'woman, babe, nor vieillard.'"
"If it must be, it must-"
"It must!"
"Soit! If you will have it so."
The yard was large enough for any pair of escrimeurs to make fair play in, yet had it been smaller it would have well sufficed, as the dragoon found. Found that he had his master here before him, a man in whose hands he was a child; a fencer who would not let him move from the spot he was on, except backward slowly to the wall. And that not by his own desire, but because the iron wrist in front of him rendered resistance to its owner's will impossible.
Sword-play such as this he had never known, nor an adversary who parried every thrust as he made it, yet never lunged himself, reserving, doubtless, all his strength for that lunge at last. Strength to thrust through muscle and chest-wall the blade which would pierce his heart.
He felt that he was doomed. There rose before him an old manoir with a window high up in a tourelle, a window from which he knew that, even now, a gray-haired, sad-eyed woman-his mother! – watched as she had often watched for his coming. Ah, well, he would never appear again to gladden her. Never, never, through all the years that she might live. Never!
There was a click, a tic-tac of steel against steel that told him his reflections were but too true and just, that the gray-haired woman's chance of ever seeing him again would be gone in a few seconds now. Also he experienced that feeling which every swordsman has known more than once, the feeling that the wrist of the opponent is preparing the way for the deadly lunge, the feeling that his own guard is being pressed down with horrible, devilish force, that the lightning thrust will be through him in a moment.
For a moment he was saved, his agony prolonged by an interruption. Two men-warders-had appeared on the roof of the gate, and, seeing what was going on below, stood there watching the play of the swords. Joking and jeering, too, about his incompetency in spite of the scarlet and gold he wore, bidding him take heart; that soon it would be over; also that the pain was not great after the first bite of the steel.
And disturbed, agitated, he but clumsily endeavoured to guard himself from that awful pressure, knowing that the thrust must come directly.
Astonished, he found it did not do so. Instead, the pressure relaxed. A moment later his adversary spoke to him.
"Those fellows agitate you. Take breath," and the dreaded blade was still. Soon both weapons were unlocked.
"You are very noble," the dragoon said. "I-I-no matter. Let us continue," and muttered to himself, "as well now as three moments later," preparing for the death he knew was to be his. Or rather thought was to be his, not dreaming that it would never be dealt to him by the calm and apparently implacable swordsman before him. For Martin, his blood cooling as he learned how poor a foeman he was opposed to, a swordsman unworthy of his steel, had resolved to dismiss him, strike up his weapon and give him his life, with some contemptuous words added to the gift.
Not understanding, however, all that was in the brain of the man who, as a boy, had been sent across the Alps from Paris to the best maestri di scherma of Padua and Florence to learn all they could teach in the use of small arms; not knowing this, the other prepared himself for his fate, seeing now that the men on the roof jeered and fleered no longer; instead, stared with a look of apprehension at the entrance to the yard.
Started, too, at a voice which Martin heard, as the others heard.
"Strike up that man's guard," the voice cried. "Secure him. For you, Montglas, touch him not at your peril. Arrest the English spy."
The voice of Baville! As Martin knew well enough ere, contemptuously disarming the dragoon by a flanconnade, he turned and faced the Intendant. The man whose child he had saved, yet who now denounced him as an English spy; who had learned by some means that he was a subject of France's bitterest foe.
Behind him there stood six Croatian Cravates, part of the Intendant's guards, swarthy fellows whose very name caused tremblings to all in France, though they themselves had trembled once before Prince Eugene's soldiers, and were to tremble again as Marlborough hedged them in with English steel later-men who now advanced to seize the English spy.
"Take his sword from him," Baville said. "If he resists, knock him on the head. Yet spare his life. That is mine to deal with."
For a moment the glittering blade flashed ominously before the Croatians; glittered, too, before Baville's eyes. Then the point was lowered to the ground, and Martin spoke.
"What," he asked calmly, "do these orders mean?"
"Mean?" echoed Baville. "Mean! You ask me that? They mean that you are in my hands. That to-morrow you die."
"Upon what charge?"
"Bah! I equivocate not with such as you," and he turned to go. "Nay," he exclaimed violently, looking round as Martin again addressed him. "Speak not. I require no answer. If you reply I shall forget that I am the King's Intendant, shall remember only that you are the murderer of my child, shall bid these men despatch you here upon this spot."
"The-murderer-of-your-child!" Martin repeated. "Of-of-"
"Of Urbaine Ducaire."
"You believe that?"
"Believe it? I know it. This man whom but now you attempted to slay, le Baron de Montglas, saw you drag her from her carriage, carry her off. Enough. Answer me not. Take him," he said to the Croatians, "to the citadel." Then, once more addressing Martin, he said, his voice calm now, his tones gentle:
"To-morrow you will have your chance to speak, even you, an English spy, you, the murderer of an innocent woman, will not be condemned unheard. The Court will sit at the earliest moment possible."
"What if I tell you that Urbaine Ducaire lives, is well, happy? What then?"
As Martin spoke he saw the handsome face of the Intendant flush, the dark olive complexion become suffused with a warm glow, the dark, full eyes sparkle beneath their long black lashes. Saw, too, that he took a step forward toward him, whispering, "Lives-is happy!" Next, turned away again with a movement of contempt.
"What then!" he exclaimed, once more addressing Martin. "What then! What, you ask, should I say or do? Say it is a lie, such as you told before, only of five thousand times a deeper dye-a lie such as the lie you uttered when you proclaimed yourself a propriétaire of the North. Shall do that which no power on earth, not Louis' own, can prevent. Slay you as I have sworn a thousand times to do if ever by God's grace I had you in my hands again."
At the feet of the soldiers there was a clang-the clang of Martin's sword as he flung it on the paved stable-yard.
"Bid your bravoes pick it up," he said. "For yourself, do with me what you choose. It will never be sheathed by me again till you have heard my story before the Court you speak of. Packed as it may be, packed as all the courts of Languedoc have been by Monsieur l'Intendant from the beginning, packed by every one of your creatures whom you can gather round you, they shall all hear to-morrow morning my story, if I am not done to death ere I can tell it."
"Lies, bravado, will avail you nothing. Le Baron Montglas is witness against you. Come," he said, turning to that person. "Come."
And he strode from out the stable-yard after bidding the Cravates to follow with their prisoner.
Yet when he was alone in the house which he occupied at Nîmes his mind was ill at ease. Ill at ease because, in the calm bearing of this prisoner, in the contempt which that prisoner had shown for him and his authority as he flung his sword at his feet, he saw something which was neither guilt nor fear. Instead, contempt and scorn.
Also he had said "Urbaine Ducaire lives, is well, happy," and in saying it had spoken as one speaks who utters truth.
Yet how could he believe that such as this could be possible? Montglas, whose life had been at this man's mercy as he entered the stable-yard, had seen the other in the mêlée, had seen him tear Urbaine from the coach, lift her on to his horse, ride off with her. To what, to where? To death, to the mountains where the Protestants sheltered. And, if further confirmation was needed, had he not caused to be brought before him one who had escaped from the massacre of the Château St. Servas, one who plainly told how ere the Camisards attacked the castle disguised as royalists, this man, the Englishman as he now knew him to be, had brought Urbaine there, to wait doubtless for his accomplices? Also that very day he had heard, had been told by some who had returned from Cette, that among the Cévenoles who had been on the beach waiting for the landing of the English, this man had been recognised. His own spies had seen him; there could be no possibility of doubt.
"Yet if, after all, they should be wrong," he mused to himself; "if, after all, Montglas, the escaped one from St. Servas, the spy, should be deceived! Or, not being deceived, Urbaine should still live! What then? What if in truth he has in some manner managed to protect her, to save her! What then?"
Even as he muttered these words, these surmises, he wiped the heat drops from his brow. For-and now almost he prayed that this man might be lying-if all were wrong in what they accused him of, if instead of leading Urbaine to her death he had saved, protected her, all the same he was doomed. Doomed beyond hope!
He had communicated with Paris, with Chamillart, with the woman who ruled the King, had asked for information about this stranger who stated that he was a kinsman of the de Rochebazons in search for one who was the De Rochebazon himself, and not a week since had received in return his orders from Paris. Orders written by De Maintenon's own private secretary to arrest the man, to put him on trial as an English spy found in France during a time of war, orders to have him condemned and executed without appeal-his nationality, which was undoubted, to be the justification for that execution.
And again, as he remembered this, Baville almost prayed that Martin's words might not be true, prayed that, if they were true and Urbaine still lived and was safe, he at least might not prove to be her saviour.
Her saviour! Yet doomed to lose his life at the hands of the man who worshipped the girl, the man who, instead of doing that saviour to death, should, instead, have poured out at his feet all that would have gone to make his life happy, prosperous, and contented.
CHAPTER XXVII
HER FATHER, URBAIN DUCAIRE
It was in a great hall, or chamber, of the Hôtel de Ville that Baville now sat, splendidly apparelled, as was ever his custom when assisting at any great public function. Once more he wore his white satin jacket with, over it, the justaucorps-à-brevet, and with, upon his satin waistcoat, the gold lilies of France emblazoned. Also his hat-which, since he represented the King, he did not remove-was white and fringed with gold lace, his ruffles were of the finest point de Malines, his gloves gold-fringed, his sword ivory-hilted and gold-quilloned. The rich costume suited well the handsome features of the terrible Intendant of Languedoc-le fléau du fléau de Dieu, as he had been called. That superb dress, combined with his dark olive complexion, classic outline, and soft dark eyes, shaded by their long lashes, caused Baville to look, as indeed he was, the handsomest man in Nîmes that day.
Beneath him sat a group of men of the law. Three judges in scarlet and ermine; the Procureur du Roi, also in scarlet, but with ermine only at his cuffs; greffiers and clerks, as well as two men who were termed abréviateurs and practised the shorthand of the day, with, near these, many other persons of importance in Nîmes. Sandricourt, the governor of the city, was there, as also Montrevel, his fierce eyes rolling round the Court as they glared from his inflamed face; Esprit Fléchier, Bishop of Nîmes, a good and righteous man, reverencing deeply his ancient faith, yet shuddering with horror at all that had been done in Languedoc, and was still doing, in the name of that faith; and many more. For it was known to every one in Nîmes, Protestant and Catholic alike, that to-day a man was to be tried who was himself a Protestant, an ally of the Camisards in the mountains, an English spy who had been one of those waiting on the shore of the Mediterranean to welcome the English invader. Tried! tried! Nay, rather brought up for condemnation and sentence without any trial to a doom which meant either the flames in the market place or the wheel by the cross in the Cathedral Place below the Beau Dieu, or perhaps the lamp whose post was highest. All knew this, Protestant and Catholic alike; all knew, the former shuddering and the latter gloating over the knowledge, that this was to be no trial, but a sentence; no execution, but a murder.
The Court, or great chamber, began to fill with spectators, also with those who were to act as guards to all who presided at or took part in the proceedings. That guard would indeed be necessary, since none could say, among those who represented what was termed the Partie Royaliste, how soon its services might be required to prevent them from being attacked and done to death, even as, in Mercier's mill yesterday, they had attacked and done to death those of the other side. None could say how, at any instant, sweeping down from their mountain homes, from their impenetrable fastnesses and caverns, might come the dreaded attroupés headed by either Cavalier or Roland, with their tigerish blood on fire to revenge the hideous massacre not yet twenty-four hours old, or with a fierce determination in their hearts to save the man who had been their friend and ally. At any moment a shout might be heard, o'ermastered by the pealing of a solemn canticle from a thousand throats; at any moment a psalm might break upon the ears of all, as it rose to Him whom they termed the God of the Outcasts, even as, to the swell of that hymn, was heard the clash of steel, the shriek of those who were in the avengers' grasp, the cry of despair from those who fell before the avengers' glaives. It was well those guards should be there.
They came in now, the fierce Cravates whose eyes gleamed like dusky stars from beneath their heavy brows, whose faces were as the faces of wild beasts that rend and tear others, not so much because rending and tearing is necessary to their own preservation as because it is their sport and delight; men from whom women drew back shuddering as they passed, and before whom their fellow-men felt their blood tingling with the desire to measure themselves. Also the Miquelets were there, the wolves of the Pyrenees who fought with their short, thin-bladed knives, yet slew as surely as others slew with heavy-handled swords or by shot of musketoon. Outside were the dragoons and the Chevaux-Légers, even the humble militia of the province, proud yet half timorous of the company they were in.
Scarcely could even Cavalier, the undefeated, have made his way with his followers into that hall, or, being there, have done aught to avenge the butchery of yesterday or to save the one who would shortly be doomed to-day.
The guard set outside and in, every precaution taken. Those of the citizens who chose to enter and were able to find standing room were allowed to do so. They were a strangely assorted company. Some were of the class known as the nouveaux convertis, men whom misery and fear of poverty had turned from Protestantism to Roman Catholicism, men who could not endure to face the flames or the gibbets. These were mostly old-too old to seek the mountains and fight for their lives and their faith, vieillards who told themselves that the only fire they needed was that of their own hearths to warm their blood, and who persuaded themselves, though with many a tear dropped unseen, that one religion was much the same as another. Yet by their sides came others now who should have put their weakness to shame: old women brought up in the same faith as they, yet scorning to change to save their skins; women who now mouthed and grimaced at Baville as he sat in splendour on the dais which acted as a substitute for Louis' throne, and seemed by that mouthing and grimacing to defy the Intendant to injure them that morning. Also, too, there came in shepherds and goatherds clad in fleeces of the Narbonne sheep that grazed on the hills around, with knives in their girdles; men known to be of the new faith, yet men who were safe to-day, since the butchery of yesterday would not bear repetition. Even Montrevel knew this, knew that he dared take no vengeance at present on those mountaineers who scowled at him over the shoulders of his own scowling soldiers, and nodded to one another and whispered as they glanced toward where he sat, while they gazed inquiringly into each other's eyes, as though asking a question. What question? One, perhaps, as to whether it would not be well to o'erleap the barriers and cut from ear to ear the throat of the beribboned and bestarred swashbuckler who sat glaring before them! It may well have been such a question as that.
The soft yet piercing eyes of Baville saw all who entered by the great porte that gave into the chamber-nouveaux convertis, mountaineers, monks and priests, prohibited Protestant pasteurs, old women and men, soldiers off duty, and some members of the noblesse (grande et petite) from the surrounding towns and villages. Those eyes missed not one face, yet seemed, judging by the calmness that dwelt in his glance, to observe nothing; a calmness that told no more than a mask or a marble bust tells, yet only served to cloak a hell which raged within him. The unhappiest man in Languedoc that day was Baville, the most heartbroken.
Ere the dawn had long been come, the Intendant, a prey to his own thoughts, to his own self-reproaches, not knowing whether he had not committed an act that was irreparable in handing Martin over to the judges as an English spy, had left his bed and made his way to the cell in which Martin had been placed.
"I must see him," he whispered to himself as he hastily donned a dark coat and cloak, vastly different from the splendour of the costume he now wore in open court. "I must see him, for I fear-O God, how I fear! – that I have sent to his doom the man who has saved Urbaine. His manner, his words, were the words, the action of truth. What hideous reparation may I not have made!"
Thinking thus, musing thus, he had taken his way from the apartment he occupied in the citadel when at Nîmes to the place where Martin was detained, a room stone-flagged and built into the wall, and strong enough to detain the most ferocious and determined prisoner who should once find himself within it.
"Unlock the door," he said to the man, one of the local milice, who was appointed to sit outside on guard over the prisoner within. "Open. You know me, do you not?"
"Yes, monseigneur, I know you," the soldier said, springing to his feet and preparing to do as he was bidden. "Yet will monseigneur venture within? The man is, they say, a dangerous-"
"Bah! Open."
And a moment later the Intendant was gazing down upon him whom he had denounced to the law, the man for whose trial, a few hours later, he had already issued orders and summoned the judges.
Upon a low pallet Martin Ashurst lay sleeping as peacefully as though in his own bed in his far-distant home, nor was he disturbed by the grating of the key in the lock nor by the entrance of Baville. He had slept but little for some nights past, and his long rides and exertions had worn him out at last.
Gazing down upon him, observing the fair hair and handsome features of his victim, Baville knew that here was no guilty man capable of betraying a young and helpless girl to her death. The calm and peaceful figure beneath him could scarce be that of one who would descend to such villainies. Murderers of the young and innocent looked not so innocent themselves! And if any confirmation of his thoughts were needed, he had it now. Upon Martin's face there came a soft smile; his lips parted and he murmured the name of Urbaine.
"Urbaine!" he whispered. "Urbaine! My love!"
Had an adder stung the Intendant standing there, or the lightning stroke blasted him, neither could have been more terrible. His love! His love! His love! Therefore he must have spoken truth when he said that she was well, was happy.
"God help me," Baville muttered. "Have pity on me."
Even as he did so, Martin's eyes opened and he saw his enemy, his captor, looking down upon him.
"What," he asked, the softness of his face all gone, his glance one of contemptuous disdain, "do you desire of me? Is my hour come, and are you here to show me the way to the scaffold? Is that the reason of your presence?" and as he spoke he rose from the pallet and stood before the other.
"Nay, nay," replied Baville, veiling his handsome face with the end of his cloak, as though he feared his emotion might be too palpable. "But-but-I have judged you too hastily. I have learned that but now. Have indeed misjudged you. All pointed, all evidence pointed, to one thing: that, by treachery unparalleled, you were the betrayer of Urbaine-to her death."
For a moment the clear eyes of Martin, all traces of slumber vanished from them, looked into the equally clear ones of Baville with a glance that the latter could scarce fathom. Then Martin said, quietly: "And you believed that evidence? Believed that I, whom you had made welcome to your hearth, had made known to your child, should do that!"
"Almost I was forced to believe," Baville answered, his voice thick and hoarse, his eyes lowered to the ground. "You were in the mêlée, the attack upon the escort. You were at the Château St. Servas, and she too was there. After that massacre-I-I-was compelled to believe."
"Do you still believe?"
"No," the other answered, his voice still broken, his eyes still on the ground.
"What has changed your belief against the evidence you speak of?"
"You murmured her name but now in your slumbers, spoke of her as your love. Is she that? Do you love-her?"
"Yes, I love her. Before all, beyond all else in this world, I love her." Then he turned his face away from Baville and whispered low: "Urbaine, oh, Urbaine!"
The dawn had come now, saffron-hued, bright with the promise of a fair day; had come stealing in through the œillet high up in the wall. Through the cross of the œillet the morning sun streamed, also throwing one ray athwart the features of the two men standing there face to face.
"And-and " – whispered Baville now, the voice, usually so rich and sweet, still blurred with emotion, almost indistinct, "and she loves-returns-your love?"
"Yes," Martin answered, "yes."
"Has told you so?"
"Ay, with her own sweet lips to mine." Then suddenly, his tone changed, speaking loudly, clearly, he exclaimed: "Man, you can not rob me of that! Make one more victim of me in your shambles if you will, yet, as I die, my last word, my last thought, shall be of Urbaine. My recompense, her hate and scorn of you."
"No, no, no!" Baville exclaimed, his hands thrust out before him as though groping for something he could not touch, or as though to fend off the denunciation of the other. "No, no, not that. Never that. You must be saved-for-for her sake. For Urbaine. She is my life, my soul. Sorrow must never come anigh her again. Already I have done-O God! – have done her wrong. Enough. Listen. You will be tried to-day, condemned as an English spy; the De Maintenon has said it-"
"The De Maintenon!"
"Ay! You are the heir to the wealth of the de Rochebazons-to much of it. You are English. It is enough. Tried, I say, condemned! Yet you shall be saved. Here, in Languedoc, I am Louis. I am France," and once more Baville was himself, erect, strong, superb. "It shall be done-it-it-it; there must be no sorrow," he repeated, "for Urbaine."
"You forget one thing-the Church."
"The Church! Bah! Theirs is a sentimental power; mine is effective, actual. You must be saved. I am Louis, the King, here. Shall be recalled for what I do; be broken, ruined. Yet, until recalled, the King. Go to your trial, but say nothing. Refuse to plead; that shall suffice." Then changing the subject, he said eagerly, feverishly almost, "Where is she? Where have you left her?"
"In the mountains. Under the charge of Cavalier."
"Cavalier!" Baville exclaimed recoiling, his face a picture of suspicion and doubt. "With Cavalier! Under the charge of Cavalier! My God! They will slaughter her! And you profess to love her!"
"She is safe; as safe as in your own arms. They will protect her."
"Protect her! Protect her! They! Protestants, like yourself!"
"Yes, Protestants, like myself. And, as they believe, nay, as they know, perhaps as you yourself know, Protestants like-Urbaine Ducaire!"
Through the thick moted sunbeams that swept from the œillet across the dusty room, passing athwart of Baville's face, Martin saw a terrible change come into that face. Saw the rich olive turn to an ashen hue, almost a livid hue; saw the deep, soft eyes harden and become dull.
"They know," he whispered, "they know that! That Urbaine is-a-Protestant? How-can-they-know-it?"