Читать книгу The Little Huguenot - Pemberton Max - Страница 3

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The priest had a volume of Cicero upon his lap, and in his right hand there was a rosary carved of amber and of gold. Though the sun's beams fell soft in the glen, and the grass was green and rich, and a canopy of young leaves cast welcome shade upon his face, he continued to read the oration upon which his eyes had fallen, and to banish those seductive whisperings of the devil, that he should lay himself down and sleep. Insensible to the wooing music of the gushing cascade, or to that stillness which had come upon all nature as the heat of the day fell, he maintained a fine rigidity of posture as he sat upright upon a boulder of stone, and bent his whole soul to the study of the black-lettered text before him. Hours passed and found his attitude unchanged; a distant church bell chimed the quarters dolefully, and drew from him no other response than the mutter of an Ave; the shadows in the glen lengthened and lengthened; even the first freshness of night breathed upon the forest, and left him insensible to all but those problems of his faith which crowded upon his mind.

Death and sleep and eternity! A priest may think even of these. Six years before this year, 1772, Père Cavaignac was far too busy snatching souls in Paris to trouble himself with those more subtle reasonings to which a new philosophy had turned. But here in the depths of the forest of Fontainebleau, it was otherwise. The very atmosphere seemed dream-giving and full of spells. The unbroken silence of the thickets, the music of the glittering falls, the dark places of pools and caverns, threw back the man's mind upon itself, and wrung from him the question, To what end? Why was he an exile from the capital? Why was his home a hut of logs hidden even from the eyes of the woodlanders? For what cause did he eat black bread and drink sour wine? That he might sleep for ever after death as he had slept through eternity before his birth? Night and the new philosophy told him that here was his answer; day and the soul's voice rekindled his faith so that he seemed to behold the Christ walking in the forest before him. And in these moments, the remembrance that he was a hunted man, that when next he looked upon the city that he loved it would be for the last time, exalted his whole being, and lifted him up in visions to the gates of heaven itself.

Night began to come down in earnest when at last the Jesuit closed his book. He had sat so still in his meditation that a deer thrust herself through the bracken not fifty yards from him, and drank undisturbed at the rippling brook. A great eagle was soaring high above him; and oft as he listened he could hear the crafty patter of a wolf or the screech of a heron in the distant marsh. There was no tongue of the forest with which six years of exile had not made him familiar; no note of bird or beast that was novel enough to carry his mind from the path it followed. From man alone he turned, hiding himself in the very depths of the bracken, frequenting the darker caves, lurking in the glens where the springs bubbled and the adder sunned himself. It was not alone that the edict of banishment which had fallen upon his Order made men a danger to him. He had been indiscreet enough to believe that the broad principles of his faith were meant to bind prince and peasant alike; and he had even denounced the profligacy of kings from the pulpit; and this with so fanatical a zeal that men cried, "Here is a new Ravaillac—let his Majesty beware of him!" From that day there was no den dark enough to hide him in Paris, no friend so powerful that he could find shelter in his house. He fled to the forest, and lurked there waiting and watching, as his rector had commanded him.

The deer drank at the stream, and bounded into the thicket again; the silver birches swayed their branches before the gentle west wind; a clock in the distant village chimed the hour of seven. The priest rose from his seat, and wrapped himself in the warm black cape which served him for cloak by day and blanket by night. Then he forced his way through the bushes and struck upon a narrow, bramble-hidden path which carried him out upon the lawn-like sward above. Here were great gnarled oaks and groves of yoke-elms; undulating sweeps of the finest grass land all carpeted with violets; pools deep down in the shady glades; even beaches of the finest yellow sand, where the brooklets made music in their pebbly beds. But the Jesuit had eyes for none of these things. He stood at the glen's head, motionless, irresolute, perhaps even fearful. A small company of mounted men had debouched from the opposite wood; and seeing him, one of their number set spurs to the beast he rode and galloped furiously across the grass.

The man was ill-dressed, and odd enough to be remarkable anywhere. He wore a leather jerkin about his body, and a broad-brimmed hat with the stump of a feather in it. His calves were bound round with strips of bright green cloth, and his breeches were balloon-shaped and of prodigious size. He had a pair of little twinkling eyes which danced like the flame of a candle in the wind, and his cheeks were so fat that rolls of flesh almost hid his mouth. For sword he carried a cudgel of black wood; and from the holster, where his pistols should have been, the end of a four-holed flageolet protruded. But conspicuous among his accoutrements was a wine-skin with little in it, and this he held his hand upon lovingly while he addressed the Jesuit.

"Holy Mother of God, defend me from all devils!" said he, surveying the motionless priest with some curiosity; and then, in quick correction, he added:

"Thy blessing, my father!"

The Jesuit turned upon him a swift, searching glance.

"What do you want with me?" he asked in a hard, cold, rarely used voice.

"No other service than one of charity, most reverend sir. I am a man of peace, as you may observe, carrying no other weapon than that which may rob men of their feet to—wit, may set them to the dance, the ballad, the pasquil and those light enjoyments of the flesh which our master Horace has even deigned to commend on occasion. And now for my sins, for which I pray the intercession of my holy patron, whose honourable name I happen to have forgotten, I—who know the forest better than the Mass book—am lost in this tangle at a moment when the natural humour of man leads him to meat and even to a cup of wine. Take me to these, my father, and I will jingle so many silver pieces in your hand that a whole legion of souls shall to-morrow go dancing out of purgatory."

The man stopped for want of breath. The priest was about to plunge again into the thicket, leaving him unanswered, when the others of the cavalcade rode up, and the leader, who was dressed in the uniform of the king's musketeers, reined in his horse and doffed his plumed hat to the ecclesiastic.

"Sir," said he, "I am a lieutenant of the guard bound upon a mission from his Majesty to the Château aux Loups, which, as you may be aware, is the residence of Madame La Comtesse de Vernet. If you can set us on the way thither——"

"Or to any decent inn where we may find food and drink," chimed in the first fellow.

"Pepin, keep your tongue still."

"Nay, my captain, there is no hand in France strong enough to hold it."

"If you can set us, I say, on the road thither," continued the other, ignoring his servant, and addressing the Jesuit, "I will see that we do not forget the service."

The priest had looked up quickly at the mention of the Château aux Loups. For a moment he seemed to be occupied counting the number of the escort, and this the leader of it observed.

"Fear nothing from these men, sir," said he, "my mission is an honourable one, and will be welcome to the countess. By the Mass, she should be glad of a little company in such a wilderness as this."

"Your mission is an honourable one—and yet you come from the king, sir?" said the priest now looking the lieutenant full in the face.

"Aye, honourable, indeed," interrupted the buffoon, Pepin; "and hark ye, my father, another word such as that and I will even lay my cudgel on your back. The devil take you for a loutish brawler. I would as soon talk with a throaty Spaniard."

"Pepin, if you do not keep your tongue still, I will cut it out," said the Lieutenant de Guyon, turning round lazily in his saddle.

"Aye, my master, that would be a service, for on my life it is as dry as a peppercorn."

The priest had seemed to be thinking deeply while servant and master thus disputed. In truth, a hundred questions were troubling him. Why had de Guyon, a notorious tool of du Barry, come with an escort of six musketeers and this clown to the retreat of Gabrielle de Vernet? What evil did the visit portend? Of what meaning was it to him personally—or to his Order, which had found in the girlish mistress of the château one of its sincerest friends? Before he could answer any single suggestion, the captain of the band spoke again.

"I am awaiting your answer, my father. You have heard of madame?"

The priest answered slowly.

"So surely have I heard of her, and of the holy way she walks, that if I thought you had come here meaning any ill to her, I would strike you down with my own hand. Paul de Guyon, look where you go, lest you lose the path and your eyes be blinded. You talk to me of an honourable mission, but what of honour hath the king with Gabrielle de Vernet? Speak no lies lest the Almighty God blast them on your lips."

He stood with arm outstretched and fire in his eyes, and for a moment the other quailed before him; but de Guyon recovered himself quickly, and cloaking his anger as he might, he gave rein to his horse.

"Did our time not press, master priest," said he, "I would pause awhile to knock sense into your head with the flat of my sword. A curse on you and your warnings, too. We will even find the château for ourselves."

He turned away making a sign to his men; but the buffoon bent down from his saddle and placed a hand upon the priest's shoulder.

"Benedicite! holy father," said he, "but you are free with your warnings. And hark ye, I, Pepin the fool, have a word of warning also. Get to your hut, François Cavaignac, for I recognise you, and by the blessed Host I will have you hanged as high as yonder elm."

The priest's hand trembled for a moment upon the hilt of the dagger which his cassock concealed. But it was only for a moment. Conquering his temper, and disdaining other weapon than his fist, he suddenly dealt the jester a rousing box on the ear, and then plunged into the thicket.