Complete Works of Stanley J Weyman

by Stanley J Weyman

  “Why, mon Dieu! it is the gentleman who departed this morning!” cried a woman. And she threw up her hands in astonishment.

  I looked at her. She was the woman of the house.

  My throat was dry and parched, my lips were swollen; but at the second attempt I managed to tell her to untie me.

  She complied, amid fresh exclamations of surprise and astonishment; then, as I was so stiff and benumbed as to be powerless, they lifted me to the door of the stable, where one set a stool, and another brought a cup of water. This and the cold air restored me, and in a minute or two I was able to stand. Meanwhile they pressed me with questions; but I was giddy and confused, and could not for a few minutes collect myself. By-and-by, however, a person who came up with an air of importance, and pushed aside the crowd of clowns and stable-helpers that surrounded me, helped me to find my voice.

  “What is it?” he said. “What is it, Monsieur? What brought you in the stable?”

  The woman who kept the inn answered for me that she did not know; that one of the men going to get hay had struck his fork into my leg, and so found me.

  “But who is he?” the new-comer asked imperatively. He was a tall, thin man, with a sour face and small, suspicious eyes.

  “I am the Vicomte de Saux,” I answered.

  “Eh!” he said, prolonging the syllable. “And how came you, M. le Vicomte — if that be your name — in the stable?”

  “I have been robbed,” I muttered.

  “Bobbed!” he answered with a sniff. “Bah! Monsieur; in this commune we have no robbers.”

  “Still, I have been robbed,” I answered stupidly.

  For answer, before I knew what he was about, he plunged his hand, without ceremony or leave, into the pocket of my coat, and brought out a purse. He held it up for all to see. “Robbed?” he said in a tone of irony. “I think not, Monsieur; I think not!”

  I looked at the purse in astonishment; then, mechanically putting my hand into my pocket, I produced first one thing, and then another, and stared at them. He was right. I had not been robbed. Snuff-box, handkerchief, my watch and seals, my knife, and a little mirror, and book — all were there!

  “And now I come to think of it,” the woman said, speaking suddenly, “there are a pair of saddle-bags in the house that must belong to the gentleman! I was wondering a while ago whose they were.”

  “They are mine!” I cried, memory and sense returning. “They are mine! But the ladies who were with me? They have not started?”

  “They went these three hours back,” the woman answered, staring at me. “And I could have sworn that Monsieur went with them! But, to be sure, it was only just light, and a mistake is soon made.”

  A thought that should have occurred to me before — a horrible thought — darted its sting into my heart. I plunged my hand into the inner pocket of my coat, and drew it out empty. The commission — the commission to which I had trusted was gone!

  I uttered a cry of rage and glared round me. “What is it?” said the sour man, meeting my eyes.

  “My papers!” I answered, almost gnashing my teeth, as I thought how I had been tricked and treated. I saw it all now. “My papers!”

  “Well?” he said.

  “They are gone! I have been robbed of them!”

  “Indeed!” he said drily. “That remains to be proved, Monsieur.”

  I thought that he meant that I might be mistaken, as I had been mistaken before; and, to make certain, I turned out the pocket.

  “No,” he said, as drily as before. “I see that they are not there. But the point is, Monsieur, were they ever there?”

  I looked at him.

  “Yes,” he said, “that is the point, Monsieur. Where are your papers?”

  “I tell you I have been robbed of them!” I cried, in a rage.

  “And I say, that remains to be proved,” he answered. “And until it is proved, you do not leave here. That is all, Monsieur, and it is simple.”

  “And who,” I said indignantly, “are you, I should like to know, Monsieur, who stop travellers on the highway, and ask for papers?”

  “Merely the President of the Local Committee,” he replied.

  “And do you suppose,” I said, fuming at his folly, “that I bound my hands, and stifled myself under that hay, on purpose? On purpose to pass through your wretched village?”

  “I suppose nothing, Monsieur,” he answered coolly. “But this is the road to Turin, where M. d’Artois is said to be collecting the disaffected; and to Nîmes, where mischievous persons are flaunting the red cockade. And without papers, no one passes.”

  “But what will you do with me?” I asked, seeing that the clowns, who gaped round us, regarded him as nothing less than a Solomon.

  “Detain you, M. le Vicomte, until you procure papers,” he answered.

  “But, mon Dieu!” I said. “That is not so easily done here. Who is likely to know me?”

  He shrugged his shoulders. “Monsieur does not leave without the papers,” he said. “That is all.”

  And he spoke truly, that was all. In vain I laid the facts before him, and asked if any one would voluntarily suffer, merely to hide his lack of papers, what I had undergone; in vain I asked if the state in which I had been found was not itself proof that I had been robbed; if a man could tie his own hands, and pile hay on himself. In vain even that I said I knew who had robbed me; the last statement only made matters worse.

  “Indeed!” he said ironically. “Then, pray, who was it?”

  “The rogue Froment! Froment of Nîmes!”

  “He is not in this country.”

  “Indeed! I saw him yesterday,” I answered.

  “Then that settles the matter,” the Committee-man answered, with a grim smile; and his little court smiled too. “After that, we certainly cannot lose sight of M. le Vicomte.”

  And so well did he keep his word, that when, to avoid the cold that began to pierce me, I went into the wretched inn, and sat down on the hearth to think over the position, two of the yokels accompanied me; and when I went out again, and stood looking distrustfully up and down the road, two more were at my elbow, as by magic. Whether I turned this way or that, one was sure to spring up, and, if I walked too far from the house, would touch me on the arm, and gruffly order me back. Mont Aigoual itself, lifting its crest, bleak, and stern, and cold, above the valley, was not more sure than their attendance, or more immovable.

  This added to my irritation, and for a time I was like a madman. Deluded by Madame St. Alais, and robbed by Froment — who, I felt sure, had taken my place, and was now rolling at his ease through Suméne and Ganges with my commission in his pocket — I strode up and down the road, the road that was my prison, in a fever of rage and chagrin. Madame’s ingratitude, my own easiness, the villagers’ stupidity, I execrated all in turn; but most, perhaps, the inaction to which they condemned me. I had escaped with my life, and for that should have been thankful; but no man cares to be duped. And one day, two days, three days passed; it froze and thawed, snowed and was fine; still, while the carriage bowled along the road to Nîmes, and carried my mistress farther and farther from me, I lay a prisoner in this wretched hamlet. I grew to loathe the squalid inn, in which I kicked my heels through the cold hours, the muddy road that ran by it, the mean row of hovels they called the village. All day, and whenever I went abroad, the clowns dogged and flouted me, thinking it sport; each evening the Committee came to stare and question. A house this way, a house that way, were my boundaries, while the world moved beyond the mountains, and France throbbed; and I knew not what might be in hand to separate Denise from me. No wonder that I almost chafed myself into madness.

  I had left my horse at Milhau, whence the landlord had undertaken to forward it to Ganges within a couple of days, by the hand of an acquaintance who would be going that way. I expected it every hour, therefore, and my only hope was that its conductor might be able to identify me, since half a hundred at Milhau had seen my commission, or heard it read. Bu
t the horse did not arrive, nor any one from Milhau, and fearing that the release of the two ladies had caused trouble there, my heart sank still lower. I could not easily communicate with Cahors, and the Committee, with rustic independence and obstinacy, would neither let me go nor send me to Nîmes, where I could be identified. It was in vain I pressed them.

  “No, no,” the sour-faced Committee-man answered, the first time I raised the question. “Presently some one who knows you will come by. In the meantime have patience.”

  “M. le Vicomte is a gentleman many would know,” the woman of the house chimed in; looking at me with her arms wrapped up in her apron and her head on one side.

  “To be sure! To be sure,” the crowd agreed, and, rubbing their calves, the members of the Committee followed her lead, and looked at me with satisfaction, as at something that did them credit.

  Their stupid complacency nearly drove me mad; but to what purpose? “After all, you are very well here,” the first speaker would say, shrugging his shoulders. “You are very well here.”

  “Better than under the hay!” the man who had pricked my leg was wont to answer.

  And on that — this was a nightly joke — a general laugh would follow, and with another admonition to be patient, the Committee would take its leave.

  Or sometimes the argument in the kitchen took a harsher and more dangerous turn; and one and another would recall for my benefit old tales of the dragooning, and Villars, and Berwick; tales, at which the blood crept, of horrible cruelties done and suffered, of stern mountain men and brave women who faced the worst that Kings could do, for the fate that they had chosen; of a great cause crushed but not destroyed, of a whole people trodden down in dust and blood, and yet living and growing strong.

  “And do you think that after this,” the speaker would cry when he had told me these things with flashing eyes, these things that his grandfathers had done and suffered— “do you think that after this we are not concerned in this business? Do you think that now, Monsieur, when, after all these years, vengeance is in our hand and our persecutors are tottering, we will sit still and see them set up again? Bishops and captains, canons and cardinals, where are they now? Where are the lands they stole from us? Gone from them! Where are the tithes they took with blood? Taken from them! Where is St. Etienne, whose father they persecuted? With his foot on their necks! And, after this, do you think that with all their processions and their idols and their Corpus Christi, they shall defy us and set up their rule again? No, Monsieur, no.”

  “But there is no question of that!” I said mildly.

  “There is great question of that,” was the stern answer. “In Nîmes and Montauban, at Avignon, and at Arles! We who live in the mountains have too often heard the storm gathering in the plain to be mistaken. These preachings and processions, and weeping virgins, this cry of Blasphemy — what do they mean, Monsieur? Blood! Blood! Blood! It has been so a score of times, it is so now! But this time blood will not be shed on one side only!”

  And I listened and marvelled. I began to understand that the same word meant one thing in one man’s mouth, and in another man’s mouth another thing; and that that which worked easily and smoothly in the north might in the south roll hideously through fire and blood. In Quercy we had lost two or three châteaux, and a handful of lives, and for a few hours the mob had got out of hand — all with little enthusiasm. But here — here I seemed to stand on the brink of a great furnace under which the fires of persecution still smouldered; I felt the scorching breath of passion on my cheek, and saw through the white-hot scum old enmities seething with new and fiercer ambitions, old factions with new bigotries. I had heard Froment, now I heard these; it remained only to be seen whether Froment had his followers.

  In the meantime, pent up in this place, I found little comfort in such predictions; I lived on my heart, and the better part of a fortnight went by. The woman at the inn was well satisfied to keep me; I paid, and guests were rare. And the Committee took pride in me; I was a living, walking token of their powers, and of the importance of their village. Now to the mingled misery and absurdity of my position, the anxiety on Mademoiselle’s account, which this news of Nîmes caused me, added the last intolerable touch, and I determined at all risks to escape.

  That I had no horse, and that at Suméne or Ganges I should inevitably be detained, had hitherto held me back from the attempt; now I could bear the position no longer, and after weighing all the chances, I determined to slip away some evening at sunset, and make my way on foot to Milhau. The villagers would be sure to pursue me in the direction of Nîmes, whither they knew that I was bound; and even if a party took the other road, I should have many chances of escape in the darkness. I counted on reaching Milhau soon after daybreak, and there, if the Mayor stood my friend, I might regain my horse, and with credentials travel to Nîmes by the same or another road.

  It seemed feasible, and that very evening fortune favoured me. The man who should have kept me company, upset a pot of boiling water over his foot, and without giving a thought to me or his duty went off groaning to his house. A moment later the woman of the inn was called out by a neighbour, and at the very hour I would have chosen, I found myself alone. Still I knew that I had not a moment to lose; instantly, therefore, I put on my cloak, and reaching down my pistols from a shelf on which they had been placed, I put a little food in my pocket and sneaked out at the rear of the house. A dog was kennelled there, but it knew me and wagged its tail; and in two minutes, after warily skirting the backs of the houses, I gained the road to Milhau, and stood free and alone.

  Night had fallen, but it was not quite dark; and dreading every eye, I hurried on through the dusk, now peering anxiously forward, and now looking and listening for the first sounds of pursuit. For a few minutes the fear of that took up all my thoughts; later, when the one twinkling light that marked the village had set behind me, and night and the silent waste of mountains had swallowed me up, a sense of eeriness, of loneliness, very depressing, took possession of me. Denise was at Nîmes, and I was moving the other way; what accidents might not befall me, how many things might not happen to postpone my return? In the meantime she lay at the mercy of her mother and brothers, with all the traditions of her family, all the prejudices of maidenhood and her education against my suit. To what use in this imbroglio might not her hand be put? Or, if that were not in question, what in that city of strife, in that fierce struggle, of which the peasants had forewarned me, might not be the fate of a young girl?

  Spurred by these thoughts, I pressed on feverishly, and had gone, perhaps, a league, when a sharp sound made by a horse’s shoe striking a stone, caught my ear. It came from the front, and I drew to the side of the road, and crouched low to let the traveller go by. I fancied that I could distinguish the tramp of three horses, but when the men loomed darkly into sight, I could see only two figures.

  Perhaps I rose a little too high in my anxiety to see. At any rate I had not counted on the horses, the nearer of which, as it passed me, swerved violently from me. The rider was almost dismounted by the violence of the movement, but in a twinkling had his horse again in hand, and before I knew what I was doing, was urging it upon me. I dared not move, for to move was to betray my presence, but this did not avail, for in a minute the rider made out the outline of my figure.

  “Hola,” he cried sharply. “Who are you there, who lie in wait to break men’s necks? Speak, man, or — —”

  But I caught his bridle. “M. de Géol!” I cried, my heart beating against my ribs.

  “Stand back!” he cried, peering at me. He did not know my voice. “Who are you? Who is it?”

  “It is I, M. de Saux,” I answered joyfully.

  “Why, man, I thought that you were at Nîmes,” he exclaimed in a tone of great astonishment, “these ten days past! We have your horse here.”

  “Here? My horse?”

  “To be sure. Your good friend here has it in charge from Milhau. But where have you been? And what are y
ou doing here?” he continued suspiciously.

  “I lost my passport. It was stolen by Froment.”

  He whistled.

  “And at Villeraugues they stopped me,” I continued. “I have been there since.”

  “Ah,” he said drily. “That comes of travelling in bad company, M. le Vicomte. And to-night I suppose you were — —”

  “Going to get away,” I answered bluntly. “But you — I thought that you had passed long ago?”

  “No,” he said. “I was detained. Now we have met, I would advise you to mount and return with me.”

  “I will,” I said briskly, “with the greatest pleasure. And you will be able to tell them who I am.”

  “I?” he answered. “No, indeed. I do not know. I only know who you told me you were.”

  I fell to earth again, and for a moment stood staring through the darkness at him. A moment only. For then out of the darkness came a voice. “Have no fear, M. le Vicomte, I will speak for you.”

  I started and stared. “Mon Dieu!” I said, trembling. “Who spoke?”

  “It is I — Buton,” came the answer. “I have your horse, M. le Vicomte.”

  It was Buton, the blacksmith; Captain Buton, of the Committee.

  * * * * *

  This for the time cut the thread of my difficulties. When we rode into the village ten minutes later, the Committee, awed by the credentials which Buton carried, accepted his explanation at once, and raised no further objection to my journey. So twelve hours afterwards we three, thus strangely thrown together, passed through Suméne. We slept at Sauve, and presently leaving behind us the late winter of the mountains, with its frost and snow, began to descend in sunshine the western slope of the Rhone valley. All day we rode through balmy air, between fields and gardens and olive groves; the white dust, the white houses, the white cliffs eloquent of the south. And a little before sunset we came in sight of Nîmes, and hailed the end of a journey that, for me, had not been without its adventures.