Complete Works of Stanley J Weyman

by Stanley J Weyman

  CHAPTER XIX.

  AT NÎMES.

  It will be believed that I looked on the city with no common emotions. I had heard enough at Villeraugues — and to that enough M. de Géol had added by the way a thousand details — to satisfy me that here and not in the north, here in the Gard, and the Bouches du Rhone, among the olive groves and white dust of the south, and not among the wheatfields and pastures of the north, the fate of the nation hung in the balance; and that not in Paris — where men would and yet would not, where Mirabeau and Lafayette, in fear of the mob, took one day a step towards the King, and the next, fearful lest restored he should punish, retraced it — could the convulsion be arrested, but here! Here, where the warm imagination of the Provençal still saw something holy in things once holy, and faction bound men to faith.

  Hitherto the stream of revolution had met with no check. Obstacles apparently the strongest, the King, the nobles, had crumbled and sunk before it, almost without a struggle; it remained to be seen whether the third and last of the governing powers, the Church, would fare better. Clearly, if Froment were right, and faith must be met by faith, and bigotry of one kind be opposed by bigotry of another kind, here in the valley of the Rhone, where the Church still kept its hold, lay the materials nearest to the enthusiast’s hand. In that case — and with this in my mind, I took my first long look at the city, and the wide low plain that lay beyond it, bathed in the sunset light — in that case, from this spot might fly a torch to kindle France! Hence might start within the next few days a conflagration as wide as the land; that taken up, and roaring ever higher and higher through all La Vendée, and Brittany, and the Côtes du Nord, might swiftly ring round Paris with a circle of flame.

  Once get it fairly alight. But there lay the doubt; and I looked again, and looked with eager curiosity, at this city from which so much was expected; this far-stretching city of flat roofs and white houses, trending gently down from the last spurs of the Cevennes to the Rhone plain. North of it, in the outskirts rose three low hills, the midmost crowned with a tower, the eastern-most casting a shadow almost to the distant river; and from these, eastward and southward, the city sloped. And these hills, and the roads near us, and the plain already verdant, and the great workshops that here and there rose in the faubourgs, all, as we approached, seemed to teem with life and people; with people coming and going, alone and in groups, sauntering beyond the walls for pleasure, or hastening on business.

  Of these, I noticed all wore a badge of some kind; many the tricolour, but more a red ribbon, a red tuft, a red cockade — emblems at sight of which my companions’ faces grew darker, and ever darker. Another thing characteristic of the place, the tinkling of many bells, calling to vespers — though I found the sound fall pleasantly on the evening air — was as little to their taste. They growled together, and increased their pace; the result of which was that insensibly I fell to the rear. As we entered the streets, the traffic that met us, and the keenness with which I looked about me, increased the distance between us; presently, a long line of carts and a company of National Guards intervening, I found myself riding alone, a hundred paces behind them.

  I was not sorry; the novelty of the shifting crowd, the changing faces, the southern patois, the moving string of soldiers, peasants, workmen, women, amused me. I was less sorry when by-and-by something — something which I had dimly imagined might happen when I reached Nîmes — took real shape, there, in the crooked street; and struck me, as it were, in the face. As I passed under a barred window a little above the roadway, a window on which my eyes alighted for an instant, a white hand waved a handkerchief — for an instant only, just long enough for me to take in the action and think of Denise! Then, as I jerked the reins, the handkerchief was gone, the window was empty, on either side of me the crowd chattered, and jostled on its way.

  I pulled up mechanically, and looked round, my heart beating. I could see no one near me for whom the signal could be intended; and yet — it seemed odd. I could hardly believe in such good fortune; or that I had found Denise so soon. However, as my eyes returned doubtfully to the window, the handkerchief flickered in it again; and this time the signal was so unmistakably meant for me that, shamed out of my prudence, I pushed my horse through the crowd to the door, and hastily dismounting, threw the rein to an urchin who stood near. I was shy of asking him who lived in the house; and with a single glance at the dull white front, and the row of barred windows that ran below the balcony, I resigned myself to fortune, and knocked.

  On the instant the door flew open, and a servant appeared. I had not considered what I would say, and for a moment I stared at him foolishly. Then, at a venture, on the spur of the moment, I asked if Madame received.

  He answered very civilly that she did, and held the door open for me to enter.

  I did so, confused and wondering; none the less when, having crossed a spacious hall, paved with black and white marble, and followed him up a staircase, I found everything I saw round me, from the man’s quiet livery to the mouldings of the ceiling, wearing the stamp of elegance and refinement. Pedestals, supporting marble busts, stood in the angles of the staircase; there were orange trees in jars in the hall, and antique fragments adorned the walls. However, I saw these only in passing; in a moment I reached the head of the stairs, and the man opening a door, stood aside.

  I entered the room, my eyes shining; in a dream, an impossible dream, that held possession of me for one moment, that Denise — not Mademoiselle de St. Alais, but Denise, the girl who loved me and with whom I had never been alone, might be there to receive me. Instead, a stranger rose slowly from a seat in one of the window bays, and, after a moment’s hesitation, came forward to meet me; a strange lady, tall, grave, and very handsome, whose dark eyes scanned me seriously, while the blood rose a little to her pure olive cheek.

  Seeing that she was a stranger, I began to stammer an apology for my intrusion. She curtsied. “Monsieur need not excuse himself,” she said, smiling. “He was expected, and a meal is ready. If you will allow Gervais,” she continued, “he will take you to a room, where you can remove the dust of the road.”

  “But, Madame,” I stammered, still hesitating. “I am afraid that I am trespassing.”

  She shook her head, smiling. “Be so good,” she said; and waved her hand towards the door.

  “But my horse,” I answered, standing bewildered. “I have left it in the street.”

  “It will be cared for,” she said. “Will you be so kind?” And she pointed with a little imperious gesture to the door.

  I went then in utter amazement. The man who had led me upstairs was outside. He preceded me along a wide airy passage to a bedroom, in which I found all that I needed to refresh my toilet. He took my coat and hat, and attended me with the skill of one trained to such offices; and in a state of desperate bewilderment, I suffered it. But when, recovering a little from my confusion, I opened my mouth to ask a question, he begged me to excuse him; Madame would explain.

  “Madame —— ?” I said; and looked at him interrogatively, and waited for him to fill the blank.

  “Yes, Monsieur, Madame will explain,” he answered glibly, and without a smile; and then, seeing that I was ready, he led me back, not to the room I had left, but to another.

  I went in, like a man in a dream; not doubting, however, that now I should have an answer to the riddle. But I found none. The room was spacious, and parquet-floored, with three high narrow windows, of which one, partly open, let in the murmur of the street. A small wood fire burned on a wide hearth between carved marble pillars; and in one corner of the room stood a harpsichord, harp, and music-stand. Nearer the fire a small round table, daintily laid for supper, and lighted by candles, placed in old silver sconces, presented a charming picture; and by it stood the lady I had seen.

  “Are you cold?” she said, coming forward frankly, as I advanced.

  “No, Madame.”

  “Then we will sit down at once,” she answered. And she pointed to
the table.

  I took the seat she indicated, and saw with astonishment that covers were laid for two only. She caught the look, and blushed faintly, and her lip trembled as if with the effort to suppress a smile. But she said nothing, and any thought to her disadvantage which might have entered my mind was anticipated, not only by the sedate courtesy of her manner, but by the appearance of the room, the show of wealth and ease that surrounded her, and the very respectability of the butler who waited on us.

  “Have you ridden far to-day?” she said, crumbling a roll with her fingers as if she were not quite free from nervousness; and looking now at the table and now again at me in a way almost appealing.

  “From Sauve, Madame,” I answered.

  “Ah! And you propose to go?”

  “No farther.”

  “I am glad to hear it,” she said, with a charming smile. “You are a stranger in Nîmes?”

  “I was. I do not feel so now.”

  “Thank you,” she answered, her eyes meeting mine without reserve. “That you may feel more at home, I am going presently to tell you my name. Yours I do not ask.”

  “You do not know it?” I cried.

  “No,” she said, laughing; and I saw, as she laughed, that she was younger than I had thought; that she was little more than a girl. “Of course, you can tell it me if you please,” she added lightly.

  “Then, Madame, I do please,” I answered gallantly. “I am the Vicomte de Saux, of Saux by Cahors, and am very much at your service.”

  She held her hand suspended, and stared at me a moment in undisguised astonishment. I even thought that I read something like terror in her eyes. Then she said: “Of Saux by Cahors?”

  “Yes, Madame. And I am driven to fear,” I continued, seeing the effect my words produced, “that I am here in the place of some one else.”

  “Oh, no!” she said. Then, her feelings seeming to find sudden vent, she laughed and clapped her hands. “No, Monsieur,” she cried gaily, “there is no error, I assure you. On the contrary, now I know who you are, I will give you a toast. Alphonse! Fill M. le Vicomte’s glass, and then leave us! So! Now, M. le Vicomte,” she continued, “you must drink with me, à l’Anglaise, to — —”

  She paused and looked at me slily. “I am all attention, Madame,” I said, bowing.

  “To la belle Denise!” she said.

  It was my turn to start and stare now; in confusion as well as surprise. But she only laughed the more, and, clapping her hands with childish abandon, bade me, “Drink, Monsieur, drink!”

  I did so bravely, though I coloured under her eyes.

  “That is well,” she said, as I set down the glass. “Now, Monsieur, I shall be able — in the proper quarter — to report you no recreant.”

  “But, Madame,” I said, “how do you know the proper quarter?”

  “How do I know?” she answered naïvely. “Ah, that is the question.”

  But she did not answer it; though I remarked that from this moment she took a different tone with me. She dropped much of the reserve which she had hitherto maintained, and began to pour upon me a fire of wit and badinage, merriment and plaisanterie, against which I defended myself as well as I could, where all the advantage of knowledge lay with her. Such a duel with so fair an antagonist had its charms, the more as Denise and my relations to her formed the main objects of her raillery: yet I was not sorry when a clock, striking eight, produced a sudden silence and a change in her, as great as that which had preceded it. Her face grew almost sombre, she sighed, and sat looking gravely before her. I ventured to ask if anything ailed her.

  “Only this, Monsieur,” she answered. “That I must now put you to the test; and you may fail me.”

  “You wish me to do something?”

  “I wish you to give me your escort,” she answered, “to a place and back again.”

  “I am ready,” I cried, rising gaily. “If I were not I should be a recreant indeed. But I think, Madame, that you were going to tell me your name.”

  “I am Madame Catinot,” she answered. And then — I do not know what she read in my face, “I am a widow,” she added, blushing deeply. “For the rest you are no wiser.”

  “But always at your service, Madame.”

  “So be it,” she answered quietly. “I will meet you, M. le Vicomte, in the hall, if you will presently descend thither.”

  I held the door for her to go out, and she went; and wondering, and inexpressibly puzzled by the strangeness of the adventure, I paced up and down the room a minute, and then followed her. A hanging lamp which lit the hall showed her to me standing at the foot of the stairs; her hair hidden by a black lace mantilla, her dress under a cloak of the same dark colour. The man who had admitted me gave me in silence my cloak and hat; and without a word Madame led the way along a passage.

  Over a door at the end of the passage was a second light. It fell on my hat — as I was about to put it on — and I started and stood. Instead of the tricolour I had been wearing in the hat, I saw a small red cockade!

  Madame heard me stop, and turning, discovered what was the matter. She laid her hand on my arm; and the hand trembled. “For an hour, Monsieur, only for an hour,” she breathed in my ear. “Give me your arm.”

  Somewhat agitated — I began to scent danger and complications — I put on the hat and gave her my arm, and in a moment we stood in the open air in a dark, narrow passage between high walls. She turned at once to the left, and we walked in silence a hundred, or a hundred and fifty, paces, which brought us to a low-browed doorway on the same side, through which a light poured out. Madame guiding me by a slight pressure, we passed through this, and a narrow vestibule beyond it; and in a moment I found myself, to my astonishment, in a church, half full of silent worshippers.

  Madame enjoined silence by laying her finger on her lip, and led the way along one of the dim aisles, until we came to a vacant chair beside a pillar. She signed to me to stand by the pillar, and herself knelt down.

  Left at liberty to survey the scene, and form my conclusions, I looked about me like a man in a dream. The body of the church, faintly lit, was rendered more gloomy by the black cloaks and veils of the vast kneeling crowd that filled the nave and grew each moment more dense. The men for the most part stood beside pillars, or at the back of the church; and from these parts came now and then a low stern muttering, the only sound that broke the heavy silence. A red lamp burning before the altar added one touch of sombre colour to the scene.

  I had not stood long before I felt the silence, and the crowd, and the empty vastnesses above us, begin to weigh me down; before my heart began to beat quickly in expectation of I knew not what. And then at last, when this feeling had grown almost intolerable, out of the silence about the altar came the first melancholy notes, the wailing refrain of the psalm, Miserere Domine!

  It had a solemn and wondrous effect as it rose and fell, in the gloom, in the silence, above the heads of the kneeling multitude, who one moment were there and the next, as the lights sank, were gone, leaving only blackness and emptiness and space — and that spasmodic wailing. As the pleading, almost desperate notes, floated down the long aisles, borne on the palpitating hearts of the listeners, a hand seemed to grasp the throat, the eyes grew dim, strong men’s heads bowed lower, and strong men’s hands trembled. Miserere mei Deus! Miserere Domine!

  At last it came to an end. The psalm died down, and on the darkness and dead silence that succeeded, a light flared up suddenly in one place, and showed a pale, keen face and eyes that burned, as they gazed, not at the dim crowd, but into the empty space above them, whence grim, carved visages peered vaguely out of fretted vaults. And the preacher began to preach.

  In a low voice at first, and with little emotion, he spoke of the ways of God with His creatures, of the immensity of the past and the littleness of the present, of the Omnipotence before which time and space and men were nothing; of the certainty that as God, the Almighty, the Everlasting, the Ever-present decreed, it was. And the
n, in fuller tones, he went on to speak of the Church, God’s agent on earth, and of the work which it had done in past ages, converting, protecting, shielding the weak, staying the strong, baptising, marrying, burying. God’s handmaid, God’s vicegerent. “Of whom alone it comes,” the preacher continued, raising his hand now, and speaking in a voice that throbbed louder and fuller through the spaces of the church, “that we are more than animals, that knowing who is behind the veil we fear not temporal things, nor think of death as the worst possible, as do the unbelieving; but having that on which we rest, outside and beyond the world, can view unmoved the worst that the world can do to us. We believe; therefore, we are strong. We believe in God; therefore, we are stronger than the world. We believe in God; therefore, we are of God, and not of the world. We are above the world! we are about the world, and in the strength of God, who is the God of Hosts, shall subdue the world.”

  He paused, holding the crowd breathless; then in a lower tone he continued: “Yet how do the heathen rage and the people imagine a vain thing? They trample on God! They say this exists, I see it. That exists, I hear it. The other exists, I touch it. And that is all — that is all. But does it come of what we see and hear and feel that a man will die for his brother? Does it come of what we see and hear and feel that a man will die for a thought? That he will die for a creed? That he will die for honour? That, withal, he will die for anything — for anything, while he may live? I trow not. It comes of God! Of God only.

  “And they trample on Him. In the streets, in the senate, in high places. And He says, ‘Who is on My side?’ My children, my brethren, we have lived long in a time of ease and safety; we have been long untried by aught but the ordinary troubles of life, untrained by the imminent issues of life and death. Now, in these late years of the world, it has pleased the Almighty to try us; and who is on His side? Who is prepared to put the unseen before the seen, honour before life, God before man, chivalry before baseness, the Church before the world? Who is on His side? Spurned in this little corner of His creation, bruised and bleeding and trampled under foot, yet ruler of earth and heaven, life and death, judgment and eternity, ruler of all the countless worlds of space, He comes! He comes! He comes, God Almighty, which was, and is, and is to be! And who is on His side?”