CHAPTER V.

GUESTS AT THE TOUR.

I SAT in my mother's room that night till it was nearly twelve o'clock, and then, wrapping myself in the long black cloak which is, or was, worn by women of every rank in Normandy, I stole down-stairs and across the courtyard to the ruined chapel.

All was lonely and deserted. The servants had gone to bed hours before; the horses were safe in their stables, and I encountered nobody and nothing but our great English mastiff, Hal, who sniffed at me a little doubtfully at the first, and then stalked solemnly at my side, carrying in his mouth a stick he had picked up—a ceremony which for some unknown reason, he always performed when he wished to do honor to any one. I was not sorry to have his company, for the place was lonesome enough, and I had never in my life been out of doors so late.

The moon, several days past the full, had risen, but was still low in the sky, and only gave light enough to perplex me with mysterious reflections and shadows, which seemed to have no right reason for their existence. Owls whooped dolefully, answering each other from side to side. The sea roared at a distance, and now and then a sudden gust, which did not seem to belong to any wind that was blowing, shook the ivy and sighed through the ruined arches.

And there were other sounds about as I entered the dark chapel—deep sighs, hollow murmurings and whisperings, sudden rushes as of water—no one knew from whence. My father always said that these sounds came from the wind sighing in the deep vaults below the chapel, and perhaps from some subterrane passage which the sea had mined for itself at high tides. But the servants considered them as altogether supernatural, and nothing would make them approach the chapel after nightfall.

I believe I have said there was a door opening from the chapel through the outer wall, but I had never seen it opened in my time. By this door I now took my stand, Hal sitting in solemn wonder at my side, and listened in awful silence, holding in my hand the great key dripping with oil.

It seemed an age to me, though I do not think that more than half an hour passed before I heard a slight noise, and then three low taps thrice repeated on the outside of the door. Hal roused up, growling like a lion, but my upraised finger silenced him. Quickly, and with a firmness of hand which surprised me, I opened the door and saw, not the old man I expected, but a peasant in Norman dress. For a moment my heart stood still, and then I was reassured.

"The name of the Lord is a strong tower!" said the stranger.

"To them that fear him," I added, giving the countersign. "Come in quickly; we must lose no time."

He entered, and I closed the door. Then dismissing old Hal, who was very unwilling to leave me in such dubious company, I led the way to the chancel, by means of the little dark-lantern which I had held under my cloak. I pressed the button with all my strength; the whole of the stall moved aside, and showed a narrow passage in the thickness of the wall.

"Enter, monsieur," said I; and then, giving him the lantern to hold, I pulled back the stall and heard the bolt drop into its place. Then taking the light again and holding it low to the ground, I went on, and the stranger followed. The road was rough, and he stumbled more than once, but still we proceeded till we reached a very narrow and broken stair, which led steeply upward till at last we came to a heavy wooden door.

This I pushed open, and found myself in a somewhat spacious room with some remains of mouldering furniture and hangings. Here had been placed a small bed, a chair, and some food, and on the hearth were the means of lighting a little fire.

"Now we are in safety, monsieur, and can speak a little," said I, with an odd feeling of protection and patronage mingled with the veneration with which I regarded my companion. "Please sit down and rest while I light a fire. We can have one at any time, for this chimney communicates with my father's workshop, where he keeps a fire at all hours."

I busied myself with lighting the fire, and had started a cheerful blaze when I heard a deep sigh behind me, and looking round I was just in time to break the fall of the stranger as he sank on the floor. I was dreadfully frightened, but I did not lose my presence of mind. I loosened his doublet, moistened his forehead and lips with strong waters, and when he began to revive, and not before, I put a spoonful of wine into his mouth, remembering what Grace had said to me once:

"Never try to make an unconscious person swallow. You run the risk of choking him. When he begins to recover, he will swallow by instinct."

At last, when I had begun to think that I must call my mother at all hazards, the stranger opened his eyes and regarded me with fixed and solemn gaze.

"Is it thou, my Angelique?" he murmured. "Hast thou at last come to call thy father away?"

"Please take some more wine," said I, speaking as steadily as I could, but my voice and hand both trembled.

The stranger sighed again, and then seemed to come wholly to himself.

"I see I was bewildered," said he. "I took this demoiselle for my own daughter, who has been in heaven this many a year."

"I am the Demoiselle d'Antin," said I. "My father was obliged to go away, and Mrs. Grace is ill, so he sent me to guide you to a place of safety."

And then I brought the soup which I had warmed on the hearth, and pouring out wine, I begged him to eat and drink.

"And did your father and mother indeed send their only child on so dangerous an errand?" asked the old man. "Sure, now we shall know that they fear God indeed, since they have not withheld their only child from him."

"Please do eat, sir," I urged; "the soup will be cold."

The old man smiled benignly. "Yes, my child, I shall do justice to thy good cheer, never fear. I have neither eaten nor drank for twenty-four hours. But now seek thine own rest, little one. Late hours are not for such as thou."

"I will come hither again to-morrow," said I, when I had arranged the bed to my liking; "but my father bid me say he would not be able to see you before midnight. If any one comes who knows the secret, he will give three knocks, counting ten between. If any one else comes, take refuge in the secret passage, and follow it past the place of entrance till you come to stairs that lead downward to the chapel vaults. These you can descend; but do not walk about, as the ground is uneven, and there are deep rifts in the rocky bottom of the vault. I will leave you the lantern, as the moon shines in on the staircase, and I know the steps well. Good-night, monsieur."

The minister laid his hand on my head and gave me his blessing, and I retreated to my mother's room, which I reached by another long passage in the walls of the gallery.

Now that the excitement was over, I was ready to drop with fatigue and sleepiness, and most thankful I was to be dosed with the hot broth my mother had kept ready for me, and deposited in my own little bed.

Oh, how horribly sleepy I was when I was awaked the next morning. But I knew I ought to be stirring as early as usual to avoid suspicion, and I was soon up and dressed. How many things I did that day! I ran to wait upon Grace and my mother; I mounted to the top of the old tower to gather the wall pellitory for some medicinal purpose or other, and to spread out the fruit which Grace always laid there to dry; and finally I ran down to the great spring below the orchard to bring up a jug of water which Grace's fevered fancy had thought would taste better than any other.

I was coming up the hill with my jug on my head in Norman fashion, and singing:

"Ba-ba-balancez vous done!"

When I met Lucille. She had been crying, and was very pale.

"What is the matter, Lucille?" said I.

"The matter is that I will not endure any more to be so treated," said she passionately. "To be scolded like a child because I stayed out a little after sunset talking to Pierre Le Febre, and to be told that I disturb the peace of the family. No, I will not endure it!"

"But, Lucille, why should you talk with Pierre Le Febre?" I asked. "You know what a wild young fellow he is, and what bad things he has done. I don't wonder your mother does not like it. Oh, Lucille, surely you do not care for him!"

"Of course I do not care for him," said Lucille, more angrily still. "I do not care a rush for him. It is the being lectured and put down and never daring to breathe, that I hate."

"I am sure you have as much liberty as I do," said I. "And as to lectures, I should like to have you hear how Mrs. Grace preaches at me. Besides, I think Mother Jeanne was rightly displeased. I am sure no girl who values her character ought to be seen with Pierre Le Febre. Remember poor Isabeau, Lucille."

"What, you, too!" said Lucille between her closed lips. "Must you, too, take to lecturing me? Ah, well, we shall see!"

We had now reached the point I mentioned before, where the lane crossed the high road to Avranches, and our attention was attracted by the sound of chanting. The priest and his attendants were coming up from the village, evidently carrying the Host to some dying person.

"Quick, Lucille, there is yet time!" said I, and I turned aside into the thick bushes and ascended the rock I had spoken of.

I had reached the top and hidden myself from observation before I discovered that she was not following me. I peeped over and saw her standing just where I had left her.

"Quick, quick, Lucille!" I cried, but she never moved.

The procession came near. To my inexpressible horror, I saw Lucille drop on her knees and remain in that position till the priest came up. He stopped, asked a question or two, and then, as it seemed, bestowing his blessing and giving her something from his pocket, he passed on. It was not till he was out of sight that I dared descend. I found Lucille still standing, apparently lost in thought, and holding in her hand a little gilded crucifix.

"What have you done, Lucille?" I cried. "You have made an act of catholicity!"

"I know it," said she, in that hard, unfeeling tone which is sometimes a sign of the greatest excitement. "I meant to do it! I have had enough of the Religion, as you call it!" and she spoke with a tone of bitter contempt. "I am going to try what holy Mother Church can do for me."

"And leave your father and mother, never to see them again—leave them in their old age, to break their hearts over their child's apostasy—"

"No hard words, if you please, Mademoiselle d'Antin," interrupted Lucille, with a strange smile. "Suppose at my first confession I choose to tell of contempt for the Sacrament, and so on? As to my father and mother, they will not care. Why did they not try to make me happy at home? Why did they love David the best? They have never been kind to me—never!"

"Every word you say is false!" I interrupted in my turn, far too angry for any considerations of prudence. "Your parents have always been good to you—far better than you deserved. Go, then, traitor as thou art—go, and put the crown to your baseness by betraying your friend! Sell yourself to Satan, and then find out too late what his service is worth. May Heaven comfort your poor father and mother!"

And with that I walked away, but so unsteadily that I could no longer balance my jug safely on my head. I stopped to take it in my hands, when I heard my name called, and in a moment, Lucille came up to me.

"Do not let us part so, Vevette," said she. "I was wrong to speak to you as I did. Forgive me, and say good-by. We shall perhaps never meet again."

My heart was melted by these words.

"Oh, Lucille!" I cried, throwing my arms round her. "Do not lose a moment! There is yet time. Hasten to your parents, and tell them what you have done. They will find a way for you to escape."

"And so have my father sent to the galleys for abducting a Catholic child?" said Lucille. "Or perhaps have lighted matches tied to his fingers, or live coals laid on his breast, to force him to confess? No, Vevette, the deed is done, and I am not sorry—no, I am not sorry!" she repeated firmly. "Good-by, Vevette: Kiss me once, though I am an apostate. I shall not infect you. Comfort my mother, if you can."

I embraced her, and took my way homeward, stupefied with grief. I can safely say that if Lucille had been struck dead by a thunderbolt before my eyes, the stroke would not have been more dreadful. My mother met me at the door of Grace's room, whither I went with my burden, hardly knowing more what I was doing than some wounded animal which crawls home to die.

"You are late, petite," said she.

And then, catching sight of my face, she asked me what was the matter, repeating my name and her inquiry in the tenderest tones, as I fell into her kind arms and laid my head on her shoulder, unable to speak a word. Then in a new tone of alarm, as the ever-present danger arose before her:

"Has anything happened to your father, Vevette? Speak, my child!"

"Speak, Mrs. Vevette!" said Grace sharply. "Don't you see you are killing your mother?"

The crisp, imperative tones of command seemed to awaken my stunned powers.

"No, no, not my father," I said, "but Lucille." And then I poured out my story.

"The wretched, unhappy girl! She has sacrificed herself in a fit of ill-temper, and is now lost to her family forever!" said my mother.

"But can nothing be done? Can we not save her, maman?" I asked.

"I fear not," said my mother. "The act was too public and deliberate, and they will not lose sight of her, you may be sure. Poor, deluded, unhappy girl! By one hasty act she has thrown away home, friends, and, I fear, her own soul also."

I burst into a fit of sobbing so hysterical that my mother, alarmed, hastened to put me to bed, and administer some quieting drops, which after a time, put me to sleep. I did not wake till the beams of the rising sun startled me. I opened my eyes with that wretched dull feeling that something dreadful had happened, which we have all experienced. Then, as the truth came to my mind, I dropped my head again on my pillow in a fit of bitter weeping. But my tears did not last long. I remembered our guest in the tower, and that no one had been near him all the day before. I sprang up, dressed myself quickly and quietly, and slipped into my mother's room.

"Is that you, Vevette?" said maman sleepily. "Why are you up so early?"

"I am going to visit the pastor, maman," I answered, softly. "No one has been near him since the night before last, and he must think it very strange. Besides, he will be in need of fresh provisions."

"Go, then, my precious one, but be careful. The keys of the storeroom are there on my table."

The storeroom was the peculiar domain of Mrs. Grace—a kind of shrine where she paid secret devotional rites, which seemed to consist in taking all the things out of the drawers and cupboards and putting them back again. I had never been in it more than once or twice, and it was with a feeling almost of awe that I took the key from the outer lock and shut myself in. What a clean, orderly, sweet-savoring little room it was. The odor of sweet herbs or gingerbread will even now bring the whole place vividly before my mind.

I filled my basket with good things, not forgetting some of Mrs. Grace's English gingerbread and saffron-cakes and a bottle of wine. Then, as a new thought struck me, I took a small brass jar, such as is used for that purpose in Normandy, and stealing out I called my own cow from the herd waiting in the courtyard, and milked my vessel full. Just as I had finished, old Mathew appeared.

"You are early, mademoiselle," said he, smiling. "That is well. Early sunbeams make fresh roses. I know madame will enjoy her morning draught all the more for that it comes from your hands."

"I like to milk," said I; "but I must not stay. Maman will wonder where I am."

I took my basket from its hiding-place and hastened up the stairs to the tower. Before knocking I listened a moment at the door. The old man was up, and already engaged in prayer. I heard the most touching petitions put up for my father and mother and for myself. Surely all the prayers offered for me in my childhood and youth were not thrown away. It was for their sake that I was not left to perish in the wilderness of this world into which I wandered.

When the voice ceased, I made the signal, and the door was opened.

"Ah, my daughter, good-morning," said the old man, with a benignant smile. "I began to fear some evil had befallen you or yours. Has not your father returned?"

"No, monsieur, he said he might possibly not arrive till to-night. I was ill last night, and not able to come to you. I hope you have not been hungry."

And with some housewifely importance, I arranged my provisions on the old table and poured out a tall glass full of the rich, frothy milk.

"This is indeed refreshing," said the old pastor after a long draught; "better than wine to an old man. Milk is for babes, they say; and I suppose as we approach our second childhood we crave it again. I remember, as I lay for four days in a cave by the sea-shore, with nothing to eat but the muscles and limpets, and no drink but the brackish water which dripped from the rocks, I was perpetually haunted by the remembrance of my mother's dairy, with its vessels of brass and red earthenware overflowing with milk and cream. But, my child, you are a bountiful provider. Will you not awaken suspicion?"

"Oh, no, monsieur; I have taken everything from the storeroom, where no one ever goes but maman and Mrs. Grace, her English gentlewoman. I must leave you now, but I will come again to-night."

I found my mother up and dressed. We had only just finished our morning reading when Julienne appeared, with the news that Simon and Jeanne Sablot desired to see madame.

"I fear the good woman has had news of her daughter," observed Julienne. "Her eyes are swollen with weeping."

"Bring them to me at once," said my mother. "Poor Jeanne! There is but One who can comfort her. I suppose Lucille has gone."

It was even so. Lucille had come home and done her share of work, as usual. She had sat up rather late, making and doing up a new cap for her mother. In the morning she did not appear, and Jeanne supposed she had overslept, and did not call her. Becoming alarmed at last, she went to her room, and found it empty. The bed had not been slept in. All Lucille's clothes were gone, but her gold chain and the silver dove worn by the Provençal women of the Religion, which she had inherited from her grandmother, were left behind. It was evident that Jeanne had no suspicion of the truth.

"She has left this writing," said she, producing a note, "though she knew that I could not read it. She has been talking more than once of late with that reprobate Pierre Le Febre. Doubtless she has gone away with him, and we can have no remedy, because he is of our enemies and we are of the Religion. Will madame have the goodness to read the note?"

"My poor Jeanne, the matter is not what you fear, but quite as bad," said my mother, reading the note, her color rising as she did so. "I fear you will never see poor Lucille again."

The note was a short and cold farewell, saying that the writer had become a Catholic, and was about to take refuge with the nuns at the hospital.

"I know I have never been a favorite with you, so I hope you will not be greatly grieved at my loss," was the cruel conclusion. "If I had had a happier home, things might have been different. Do not try to see me. It will only lead to trouble. Farewell."

I will not attempt to describe the anguish of the poor parents as the letter was finished. Simon was for going at once to the hospital to claim his daughter, and my mother with difficulty convinced him that such a step would be fruitless of anything but trouble.

"I would at least know that she is there," said Simon. "It may be that this is but a blind, after all."

"I fear not," said my mother; and she told him of the scene I had witnessed yesterday.

Simon walked up and down the room several times.

"Let her go!" said he at last. "She has been the child of many prayers. It may be those prayers will be heard, so that she will not be utterly lost. Come, my wife, let us return to our desolate home. Madame has cares and troubles enough already."

"May God console you, my poor friends," said my mother. "Do not give up praying for the strayed lamb. It may be that she will be brought home to the fold at last."

I suppose no Protestant here in England in these quiet days can have any idea of the feelings with which such an act as Lucille's was regarded by those of the Religion at that time. It seems even strange to myself, till I bring back by reflection the atmosphere in which we lived. That some should be led, through terror and torture, to deny their faith was to be expected. Many did thus conform, so far as outside appearances went—that is, they went to mass, even to communion, made the sign of the cross, and bowed their heads to the wayside images. These were looked upon with pity by the more steadfast brethren, and always received back into the church, on repentance and confession.

But such a step as this of Lucille's was almost unheard-of, and it produced a great commotion in our little Protestant community. It was not only a forsaking of the faith of her fathers, but a deliberate going over to the side of our treacherous oppressors—of those who made us to serve with cruel and hard bondage, who despoiled and tortured us, and trampled us into the very mire. And there was no remedy. The law declared that girls were able to become "Catholics," such was the phrase of these arrogant oppressors, at twelve years old. Should one do so, she was to be taken from the custody of her parents, who were nevertheless obliged to support her. Later, matters were even worse. Little children of five and six years old, who could be deluded into kissing a wax doll, or looking into a church, or bowing the head to an image, were carried off, never to be heard of again. Often they were kidnapped without any such ceremony.

The very pious Madame de Maintenon (whom some folks make quite a saint of nowadays) availed herself of this infamous law to a great extent, and many of the pupils at her famous school of St. Cyr were of this class. Thus she took both his children from her cousin, the Marquis de Villette, because the poor gentleman would not yield to her arguments, but made fun of them. *

* "Souvenirs de la Marquise de Caylus," quoted by Félise. Any one who thinks Madame de Maintenon a pattern would do well not to read memoirs of her own days.

As my mother had said to Simon Sablot, there was no redress. We of the Religion had no chance of justice, even in a merely civil suit, much more in a case like the present. It was openly said in the courts, when a man complained of an unrighteous judgment, "Ah, well, the remedy is in your hands. Why do you not become Catholic?" All new converts were permitted to put off the payment of their debts for three years, and were exempted from many taxes which fell heavily upon their brethren. In short, we were oppressed and trodden down always.

There were those, however, even of our enemies, who raised their voices against these infamous laws. Certain bishops, especially those inclined to Jansenism, protested against the Protestants being absolutely driven to commit sacrilege, by coming to the mass in an unfit frame of mind. Fénelon afterward wrote a most indignant letter to the king on the subject.

The Bishop of Orleans absolutely refused to allow the quartering of dragoons on his people. More than one kind old curé or parish priest was exiled from the presbytery, where he had spent all his days, and sent to languish in some dreary place among the marshes or in the desolate sands, for omitting to give notice of some heretic who had died without the sacraments, or for warning his poor neighbors of the approach of the dragoons.

The very Franciscans who had charge of some of those dreadful prisons where poor women were shut up, after trying their best to convert their charges, would relent, and, ceasing to persecute them, would comfort them as well as they could by reading the Psalms and praying with them, smuggling in biscuits and fruit and other little dainties in their snuffy old pockets, and even, it was said, introducing now and then a Bible in the same way. *

* See the affecting story of the Tower of Constancy, told in many authors, and well repeated in Bungener's "The Priest and the Huguenot," vol II, a book not half appreciated.

The Franciscans have always been the most humane of all the regular orders. But again I am wandering a long way from my story. However, I shall not apologize for these digressions. They are absolutely needful to make any reader understand what was the state of things in France at that time.

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