CHAPTER VIII.

FLIGHT.

THE next day my father took Andrew and myself once more into the vault—this time by the secret passage which led from the pastor's room in the tower. We had a lantern with us, which we lighted as soon as we had shut ourselves in, for the lower passage and the staircase were quite dark.

"I made a discovery in this place some years since, which I think may be of great service to us, if worse comes to worst," said my father. "There used to be a legend to the effect that a great cavern existed under this vault which had an outlet to the sea-shore, and to which there was formerly an entrance from this place. It was said that this entrance had been built up on account of some dreadful crime committed in the cavern. However that may be, in trying when a young man, to satisfy my curiosity upon the subject, I found an underground passage leading from hence to the little ruined tower in the orchard, which you were teaching Vevette to sketch the other day."

"How curious!" said Andrew. "What could it have been used for?"

"Probably for a sally-port in the days when the house was fortified. Such underground ways are not uncommon in old buildings. It may serve us a good turn upon a pinch; but you must help me to open it, and you, Vevette, must hold the light. I built it up myself with the hewn stones which seem to have been left here from ancient times, perhaps from the time that the entrance was closed to the cavern below. No one knows the secret but old Sablot, who died the other day, and who assisted me in the work. So as there is no one else about the place whom I dare trust, I must even ask you, my fair son, to turn laborer for once, and help me with these same stones."

"I want no better fun," said Andrew, pulling off his coat at once. "I have been suffering for some hard work ever since I came here."

"Is that the reason you go out so often with Pierre Le Febre in his new boat?" I asked.

For my father, seeing that Pierre was really making a great struggle to do well, had given him a fine new fishing-boat, to be paid for in very small instalments, as he could afford, and the poor fellow and his wife were very grateful.

"Partly for that reason, and partly because I am interested in the man himself," answered Andrew. "He is one who, under good teaching, would have made a brave seaman. If I read him aright, he is one of those people who need grand motives—more than the mere living and working from day to day, and I have been trying in my stupid way to set before him something of the sort. He was as much astonished when I told him that God was his Father, and was pleased when he did well and grieved when he did ill, as if he had been brought up among the heathen I have seen in the Indian seas. But I beg your pardon, sir; I did not mean to preach."

And Andrew caught himself up and blushed like a girl, for, like other young men, he was dreadfully ashamed of having any one think he was trying to be good.

"I do not see why you should beg my pardon, dear son," said my father, with a smile—that sweet, sudden smile which does so light up a usually grave face, and which I see again sometimes on my sober little Armand. "Surely it is a blessed work, and one which God will own. But I must warn you that it is not without danger. You may be accused proselyting, which is one of our deadliest sins in the eyes of our enemies."

"Well," said Andrew, with a great sigh, "I think I shall appreciate it, if I reach a land where a man may open his mouth. Why should you delay any longer? Why not fly to-night?"

"Because my arrangements are not yet complete," said my father.

"If you wait till everything is ready, you will never go at all," said Andrew.

"That is true; but there are certain things yet to be arranged concerning those who stay behind. I must see our friends at Avranches, and leave with them some means of raising funds to help themselves withal. To-morrow I shall go thither, and the day after I hope to go—but why should I say hope?" he murmured, in the sad voice I knew so well. "Weep not for the dead, neither bemoan him, but weep, son, for him that goeth away, for he shall return no more, nor see his native country."

"If my native country was such a step-dame as this, I don't think I should bemoan it very much," muttered Andrew between his teeth.

"Don't the people who have gone away and settled in America long to see England again?" I asked.

"No, I don't believe they do," he said. "They are as self-satisfied as any people I ever saw. And yet I don't know," he added. "The names they give their children are very touching, especially those on the stones in their burying-ground."

"What names?" I asked.

"Such names as 'Hopestill,' 'Waitstill,' 'Submit,' 'Resignation,' and the like. I read one epitaph over a little baby girl which runs thus:

"'Submit submitted to her Heavenly King, Being a flower of that Eternal Spring! Near three years old, she died, in Heaven to wait; The year was sixteen hundred forty-eight.'

"Not the best of poetry, you will say, but very affecting to my mind."

"Come, come, son," said my father; "we did not come into this mouldy old hole to repeat verses. Let us set to work."

Andrew blushed again, and at once bent himself to the task of removing the heavy stones. This was hard work, especially as it was necessary to make as little noise about it as possible. But it was accomplished at last, and the arched entrance of the passage made practicable. More my father did not care to do.

"Now for the other end," said my father. "Vevette, are you afraid?"

"No indeed!" said I indignantly.

"Vevette is a real Corbet woman!" said Andrew. "She is afraid of nothing."

"Except of being laughed at," returned my father. "Come, then, give me the light. I will go first, and do you young ones follow, carefully, and looking to your steps."

I was about to speak, but my father put his finger upon his lip.

"We will not talk," whispered he; "we are now outside the bounds of the vault, and may be overheard."

Accordingly we proceeded in silence for some hundred yards, sometimes able to walk upright, sometimes bending almost double, as the walls and roof contracted, till our further passage was barred by a heap of large stones. These, however, being loosely piled, were easily removed, and we found ourselves in a cellar-like vault, in which were piled up old cider-casks. (All such places in that part of Normandy always are full of useless old casks, though what they are kept for I cannot say.)

From this vault a ruined but passable staircase led up to the level of the ground. I shall never forget how beautiful everything looked to me as we emerged from the deeps of the earth and saw the whole landscape bathed in the mild autumnal sunshine. My heart bounded for a moment and then sank as in a deep of cold, bitter waves, when I thought how soon I must leave all this beauty, never, never to see it again. English people sometimes fancy that French people do not care for their homes because they have no one word which answers to the English one. It is just one of those pieces of insular pride and—I was going to say stupidity—which always enrage me, though I am half an English woman by birth and wholly one by adoption.

"Ah, fair France!" said my father mournfully. "Thou that killest the prophets and stonest them that are sent unto thee. Surely the day will come when thou shalt desire to see one of the days of the Son of Man, and shall not see it. Thou hast condemned and killed the just, and he doth not resist thee!"

"And that is where the just is not of my mind," muttered Andrew between his teeth. "If he were, he would have one fight for it."

My father did not hear, but I did, and gave Andrew a look, partly of approbation, partly of warning. I felt as he did. If we could only have fought for our lives, I should not have minded it so much.

We returned by the fields, after my father and Andrew had shut up the entrance to the passage with the loose stones in such a manner that they could easily be removed. As to the other end, we were not afraid to leave it open, since not one of our farm or house servants would have descended into the vault for any consideration. We found my mother anxiously expecting us.

"You are gone a long time," said she. "Here is a strange visitor—no less than a Capuchin friar—who says he used to know you, and desires much to see you."

"A friar!" said my father, turning pale. "What can he want? Where is he?"

"Eating and drinking in the dining-room at this moment, if he is not asleep in his chair," answered my mother. "I could do no less than offer him hospitality, especially as he asked no impertinent questions, and had nothing to say about religious matters. He seems a harmless old soul enough."

"Many of them are, I believe, while others are wolves in sheep's clothing," said my father; "but I shall soon see to which class our friend belongs."

My father went to the dining-room, where he shut himself in with his guest and remained a long time, apparently in earnest conversation. Finally, however, we saw him accompany the friar to the gate and take a friendly leave of him.

"Well, what had your ghostly father to say?" asked my mother when my father returned to us.

"Nothing more than I knew already," replied my father. "Did you not know him? It was my old playmate and companion in arms, Louis de Reviere."

"I thought there was something familiar in his face and voice," said my mother. "But what brought him here, and in that dress?"

"He has taken the tonsure, and is now a Franciscan," answered my father. "He had always rather a turn for a religious life, as they call it. As to his errand, he came ostensibly to convert me—really to warn us of danger, and beg us to fly. He says that a company of dragoons will be at Avranches next week. Ah, my poor people!"

"Do not give way, my Armand," said my mother tenderly. "But now, tell us clearly, what is your plan?"

"To set forth by night and travel to Honfleur by the most retired roads, disguised in the peasant dresses I bade you prepare. You and Vevette will ride the donkeys. Andrew and myself will walk beside you. We will also have another beast laden with poor Grace's dried fruits and confections which we are carrying to Honfleur to sell. Once there we shall find English ships, and, I trust, have no difficulty in making our way. Simon Sablot is in the secret, and will have the animals all ready."

"And when shall we set out?" I asked anxiously.

"To-morrow night, my little one. I must go once more to Avranches to bestow in safety the money belonging to our consistory, which thou knowest is in my hands."

"Could not Simon take the money to Avranches?" asked my mother.

"And thus run the risk while I was escaping? Nay, my Margaret, that is not spoken like thyself. But, in truth, my risk would be much less than his. Thou knowest I have made many errands thither of late, concerning the houses which are being repaired in the market-place. No one will think it at all strange."

My mother shook her head, but both she and I knew that, once my father's mind was made up on a point of duty, there was no more to be said.

The day passed quietly and sadly enough, for we all felt it was probably the last day we should spend in the dear old house. Our preparations were all completed, even to filling the panniers of the spare donkey with the dried fruits and other matters which were to form our ostensible errand to Honfleur. As my father said, he had laid by a considerable amount of wealth in diamonds and other jewels, which, being of small bulk, could be easily concealed about our persons. We had also about three hundred Louis in gold, which was divided between us. We dared take but very few clothes, and as for books or any treasures of that sort, they were of course quite out of the question.

I think none of us slept that night. I am sure I did not. It seemed to me as if I could not endure to lose sight for a moment of the things and places I was so soon to leave forever. At daylight my father called us all together, and for the last time we joined in prayer about that family altar which was so soon to be laid in ruins, never to be builded in that place again.

But why should I say so? Never is a long day. Perhaps some time, in the councils of heaven, that altar may be once more erected.

We took our breakfast together very silently, and then my father kissed us all and mounted his horse to go to Avranches, taking Andrew with him. My mother called all the servants and paid them their wages, with a little present into the bargain. I believe the good souls had an idea of what was going to happen, though none of them said a word. It was a weary day, for we had done everything we could think of by way of precaution, and the time hung heavy on our hands. My father was to have returned by three o'clock, but the hour struck and he did not come. Alas, never again!

I had gone down to the gate for the tenth time to look for them, when, as I opened the little wicket, I met Pierre Le Febre face to face.

"Thank the holy archangel," said he breathlessly. "I was wondering how I should get speech of you, mademoiselle. But let me come in, for I have somewhat to say."

I let him into the courtyard, and called my mother to hear Pierre's tale.

"I was standing by the great gate of the hospital, as they call it," said he. "I had sold my fish to the Sisters, and was waiting for my money when the wicket suddenly opened and Lucille Sablot looked out. Ah, madame, how changed! But, as I said, she looked out, and, seeing no one, she put this little packet into any hand."

"'Quick, Pierre, if ever you cared for me,' said she. 'This for Mamselle Vevette, and make haste. Life and death are in thy steps. Tell Vevette I dared not write, but she will know what this means by the English name.' Then she drew in her head, and I heard some one scolding her within for looking out of bounds."

Breathlessly I opened the paper. There was nothing in it but a grosse mouche, what in English we call a bluebottle.

"A fly," said I. "Fly! That is what it means, maman. Lucille has sent us a warning. She knows of some danger that threatens us immediately. What shall we do?"

"Oh, if your father were but here!" said my mother, wringing her hands convulsively.

"There he comes," said I, and at that moment appeared, not my father, but Andrew, riding across the fields at break-neck speed, his horse covered with foam. He sprang to the ground, flinging his reins loose anyhow.

"Armand! My husband!" said my mother. "Where is he?"

"To the tower first, aunt, then I will tell you all. Pierre, if ever he or I did you a good turn, do me one now!" said Andrew sharply. "I do not ask you to risk yourself, but let me have your boat. The wind is fair. We must run for Jersey as soon as it is a little later. Go, and get it ready."

"My boat does not go without me, monsieur," said Pierre. "I can bring it back, and if I am out two or three days I am kept by the wind. You can never manage it alone; you do not know the channels, and I do."

"As you will; but have it ready by ten this night. It will be very dark, but so much the better. Run, now. Come, aunt, for Heaven's sake, for your child's sake."

For maman stood like a marble statue.

"I will not move till you tell me news of Armand," said she.

"He is with God," answered Andrew, with a convulsed face. "His last words were, 'Tell Margaret to escape, for my sake, and the child's. We shall meet again.'"

"True, we shall meet again. It is but a short parting," said my mother musingly.

Then, as Andrew stamped his foot with impatience, she seemed to rouse herself.

"I am ready, my dear son. What shall we do?"

"Go, you and Vevette, and put on your peasant dresses, and secure the money and jewels, while I warn the servants. I want them to find an empty nest. Stay in your room till I come."

We obeyed at once. My mother was pale as ashes, but calm, and even cheerful. As to myself. I believe I retained only one rational thought at that moment—to do as I was bid. We changed our dresses and made our other arrangements with the speed of thought, but we had hardly finished before the noise of voices and clapping of doors told that the alarm had been given. In another moment Andrew appeared.

"I have told them that the mob are coming, and that their ladies have already escaped. I have bid them take to the woods for the night. Come, now! Leave everything in all the confusion possible to look like a hasty flight. It will all the better throw them off the scent."

We entered the secret passage, and closing it securely after us we sought the upper floor of the tower—not, however, the uppermost one, but the second.

"Do you know the way, Andrew?" I asked. "My father said these floors were not safe."

"They are safe enough for us, but our enemies will not find them very safe," was Andrew's response. "Step lightly, and follow me exactly."

We went around the side of the room to a cupboard with shelves, masking a door so entirely that no one would have known it was there. This door opened into a second and much smaller room, which again opened upon the staircase up which I had led the preacher.

"We can take breath now," said he. "We need not seek the vaults till we hear them approaching, and not then unless they come into this tower."

"They will come," said I. "Remember the staircase from the gallery."

"Let them," was Andrew's grim reply. "There are a few secrets about this place which even you do not know, Vevette."

As he spoke he stooped down, drew out two large iron bolts and laid them on the floor.

"The trap is set and baited," said he; "now let the rats walk in whenever they please."

"But how—how was it," I asked in a whisper, for my mother never said a word. The fact that my father was dead seemed enough for her.

"We had hardly reached Avranches when we heard the uproar in the market-place," returned Andrew. "At first we did not think of the cause, but as soon as we caught sight of the place we saw what was going on. They were pulling down the houses of the Protestants, and dragging out the women and the little children."

Andrew shuddered and covered his face. "I saw one man in a friar's gown take two little baby girls in his arms and try to carry them out of the press, but they were torn from him. Then they caught sight of us, and one cried out, 'There is the arch heretic. There is the man who shelters the preachers.' And a volley of stones flew about our ears. We turned to fly, as there was clearly nothing else to be done, but a man named Michaud—I don't know whether you know him—"

"My father saved him from the galleys," said I.

"Well, he raised his arquebus and deliberately fired at my uncle, wounding him in the breast. He did not fall nor lose his presence of mind, and by lanes and by-ways we gained the wood. Then he sank to the ground, and I saw that he was dying.

"'Lose no time with me,' said he faintly. 'Hasten home at once. Did we not hear them cry, "To the tower!" Remember the secret passage. Hide as long as you can, if you cannot get away. Go not by the road, but across the heath. Why do you stay?'

"But I did not leave him till he had breathed his last. Then I drew his body aside into the bushes, and hastened hither."

"And do you think they will come?" I asked, as soon as I could speak.

"I most surely do," he answered. "The hope of plunder would bring the rascals, of whom there are abundance. The priest sets on the zealots and others join because they are afraid of being suspected of favoring the cause."

We sat in silence for what seemed a very long time, till the great clock struck eight. At that very moment we heard a shout and the trampling of many feet, while a strong glare shone through the little grated casement of the room.

"There they are," said Andrew, stepping to the window. I followed him and looked out. On they came, a mob of ruffians and abandoned women, with many, too, of whom I should have hoped better things. Heading the press was one of the curés of Avranches, a man whose openly dissolute life was a scandal to his own people. There were also two or three friars, among them the one who had visited us the day before.

"Ah, the traitor!" said I. "My father's old companion in arms, and but yesterday eating his bread."

"I believe you do him injustice," said my mother, in as calm a tone as if she were speaking of the most ordinary matter. "He has come in the hope of rendering us some service. Poor, miserable, deluded people!"

"I would I had some charges of grapeshot for these poor people," said Andrew. "They would go farther to dispel their illusions than a deal of reasoning. Anything but hiding like rats in a hole. But we have no choice. Not a word or sound, for your lives. But what is here?"

It was something which in my excited state almost sent are off into a hysterical laugh—namely, my great, long-haired, white cat Blanchon, which had followed us into the tower, and now mounted upon the window-seat was growling savagely at the intruders. He was an odd creature, very fond of his friends, but formidable to his enemies, and he had this peculiarity, that he never mewed. A strange yell, which sounded like that of a human being in the wildest rage, when he flew upon his enemies, and a loud purr were all the noises he ever made.

"Let him be. He will do no harm," said I. "He never makes any noise. What shall we do now?" as the mob made their onslaught on the gates with a savage yell which made me shudder.

"Keep quiet," was the reply. "We are safe enough unless they set fire to the tower."

In another moment the gate yielded, and the people poured in. Before one could speak they were all over the house, calling to each other and venting their rage at finding no one by breaking and destroying all before them.

"To the old tower, comrades!" finally cried a voice. "There is the hiding-place."

I suppose numbers gave the people courage, for I am certain not one of them would have dared invade the domain of the white chevalier alone. We heard the rush up the stairs and then the battering down of the door. Then there was a short pause.

"Come on," cried the same voice, which I now recognized as that of Michaud, our old gamekeeper, whom my father had saved only to be murdered by him. "Come on. Who cares for ghost or devil?"

There was a rush into the room, then a cry from those nearest the door.

"Take care! The floor!"

But it was too late. The loosened boards gave way, and down went a dozen men, Michaud among them, through a yawning gulf clear to the ground floor.

"Back! Back! The tower is falling!" was the cry, while the shrieks of the men below added to the confusion. The tower was at once deserted, and we presently heard sounds which told us that the fallen men were being rescued from amid the ruins of the floor.

"To the cellars!" cried now the voice of Pierre Le Febre. "Let us taste the old chevalier's wine and brandy."

"Good, Pierre!" said Andrew. "Once let them get among the casks and bottles, and we are safe."

"If Pierre does not get among them himself," said I.

"I do not believe he will, and in any case we have the boat. But it is time we were stirring. Aunt, can you walk?"

"Oh, yes! I can do anything you wish," answered my mother, in the same calm way. She seemed to have all her wits about her, but she did not speak unless we spoke to her.

"Come, then," and he opened the door of the secret passage into which pussy led the way, majestically waving his tail and looking back as if to say, "Come on, and fear nothing! You are under my protection."

I remember smiling, in all my grief and anxiety, at his air of patronage.

I went first, after I had lighted the lantern, then came my mother, and lastly Andrew.

We heard only distant and muffled sounds, and judged that the people were busied in the cellar, where was stored not only wine and liquor, but abundance of old cider, strong as brandy itself.

We had just reached the level of the chapel and were about passing the door which led into it, when Blanchon the cat stopped, growling fiercely. In another moment a light shone through the opened door. The next Blanchon sprang forward with his wild, unearthly yell of onset, and flung himself into the face of a man who had just put his head through the opening. There was a scream of quite another character, and the man fled stumbling and falling on his way out, while Blanchon came back to us with the loud purr, which was his way of expressing complacency.

"Good cat," said Andrew. "That man won't find his way back in a hurry, but some one else may. Hold up the light, Vevette."

I held up the light while Andrew pulled to the door and with a stone smashed the spring-lock.

"Nobody will open that, even if any one dares try," said he. "Now for all the haste we can make."

I caught up Blanchon and carried him, to which he made no objection. We were soon in the open air, and walking quickly down the course of the stream which had scooped out the valley, we found ourselves in the little hamlet. It seemed to be deserted. Not a man was to be seen, nor a light, save in Isabeau's cottage. The night had grown wild and stormy, but it was not very dark. And we could see the mast of the boat, which lay at the end of the little pier.

"Now if Pierre has been true," said Andrew, and at that moment we heard his voice.

"Monsieur and madame, is that you! All is ready; but we shall have a wild night."

"Never mind, so long as the wind is fair," returned Andrew, in the same whisper. "I would rather face the sea than the devils we have left behind."

We were assisted into the boat. I holding fast to my cat, and set sail. I can give little account of the voyage. I know it was a rough and tempestuous one, and that we were many times in the greatest danger from the rocks and counter currents which make navigation in those parts so difficult.

Andrew had the helm most of the time, while Pierre, whose smuggling and other lawless exploits had made him well acquainted with the channel, directed our course. My mother sat quite still under the half-deck of the boat, and I dozed by fits, with Blanchon in my lap, who now and then uttered a peevish growl, as he vainly tried to lick himself dry.

"There comes the morning at last," said Le Febre joyously; "and here is the blessed St. Aubin's bay spread out before us, if we can but get into it. I would we had a better pilot than myself."

"Yonder comes a boat which has been out all night," said Andrew. And he stood up and hailed her in English:

"Boat ahoy!"

"Hilloa!" came back, as the stranger rapidly overhauled us. "Who are you?"

"English," was the answer. "We have ladies on board. Where are you bound?"

"To St. Aubin's," was the reply. "Follow us, and you will do well enough."

"Good!" said Andrew to my mother. "We shall land close at home. And now that we are comparatively safe, tell me, Pierre, did I not hear your voice at the tower last night?"

"You did, monsieur," was the reply. "I had a mind to see what was going on, for I knew I would get back in time, and without being missed. It was I who put the rascals up to break into the cellars. The priest tried to draw them away after him to search the old chapel, but he did not know his men so well as I did. Then, when I saw them well engaged, I took to my heels and reached the pier before you, not having so far to go, or knowing the way better. But where were you when the floors fell? I trembled for you then."

"We were safe enough, and not far off," was the reply. "Was any one much hurt?"

"Yes; Michaud will die, and a good riddance too. There were some broken heads and bones; I don't know how many. But, monsieur, what could have been in the chapel which handled the priest so terribly. I found him in the court blinded in both eyes and his face torn to pieces as by a wild beast, and he said something sprang at him in the old chapel. Could it have been that devil of a white chevalier, think you? Could a ghost handle a man like that?"

"I do not know whether or no ghosts can scratch," answered Andrew gravely; "but the one who attacked the priest has been a passenger with us."

And he raised my cloak and showed Blanchon, who had abandoned the attempt to keep himself dry, and lay a wet and sulky heap in my lap.

Pierre's face fell.

"A white cat," said he. "If I had known we had a white cat on board, I should have given up in despair a dozen times. However, all is well that ends well," he added, brightening up; "and here we come sure enough."

"And yonder is your cousin's house, Vevette," said Andrew, pointing to a comfortable-looking mansion not far-away. "We shall soon be under a roof once more."

The family of the fisherman whose boat had preceded us were gathered at the landing to see us come in, and loud were their exclamations of wonder and pity as my mother and myself were assisted from our cramped position in the bottom of the boat to the landing-place.

By one of the boys Andrew sent a message up to the house, and in what seemed a wonderfully short time we were surrounded and conveyed to the mansion Andrew had pointed out, by a troop of excited boys and girls, under the leadership of an elderly considerate manservant. Here we were warmly welcomed, kissed, fed with hot soup and mulled wine, and finally put to bed in the most fluffy of feather-beds, my mother and myself in adjoining rooms. Maman was still in the same curiously passive state, but not unconscious.

"Go to rest, my Vevette," she said, kissing me as I hung over her. "Have no fears for me. I shall do well. Thank God that you are in safety. Ah, if thy father were but here!" And for the first time, she burst into tears.

"That is well, my love," said my oldest cousin, to whom I looked in anxiety. "These tears will relieve your mother, and she will sleep, and all the better if she knows you are at rest. Go, my child."

I was used to obey, and my kind motherly cousin inspired confidence by her very tone. I undressed, put on the dry warm flannels provided for me, and crept into the bed, on which Blanchon was already established.

Oh, the delicious depths of that English bed! I thought I should lie awake to listen to the sounds from the next room, but I was worn-out, and fell asleep before my head was fairly on the pillow.

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