Jacques Bonneval Part 13

"You may make light of it, if you will," said I, "but I know you have continually run risks for me; and depend on it, I shall never forget you. Adieu, my friend."

"Farewell, then," said he, "and take my best wishes with you. I hope you will now slip safely out of the country, but a good piece of it remains before you yet. Nor are your feet in good condition for walking."

"That has been provided for," said Antoine. "As soon as we get to the waterside we shall find a boat awaiting us, which will carry us to Bordeaux."

"But you are some way from the water.'

"Yes, but I have a cart."

We then parted, La Croissette kissing me on both cheeks with the utmost kindness; and I turned away with Antoine. Looking round as we quitted the court, I had my last glimpse of his tall, meagre figure, as he stood with his hand on his hip, looking after me; and I thought how strange and disproportionate a return his kindness to me had been for mine to him, in lifting him up and saving him from a kicking horse on the way to Beaucaire. The whole scene at once started up before me--our family party in the wagon--the girls' blooming faces and gay dresses--the crowded road--the music--the bustle. Then my thoughts flew on to what followed--the humors of the fair--the crowded table at my uncle's--my betrothal to Madeleine. What a different future then seemed to lie before us to what awaited us now! Where was she? Should we meet soon?

Might we not be separated for ever? I cannot tell how many thoughts like these pa.s.sed through my mind as I limped after Antoine, who was himself somewhat awkward in his gait, like many of the silk-weavers from sitting so constantly at the loom.

Thus we pa.s.sed through some of the by-ways of Montauban, and entered a small house.

CHAPTER X.

"MY NATIVE LAND, GOOD-NIGHT"

The room we entered was dest.i.tute of furniture and blackened with smoke.

Heaps of broken fragments impeded our entrance and lay on the floor.

A man sitting on the ground was restlessly taking up one piece after another, and laying them down again, muttering to himself, without noticing us.

"I know not why they should have done so," he said hurriedly; "the poor chairs and tables could not hurt. And, after all, when they hung me up I gave in, and kissed the cross made by their swords; and they knocked me about after that. If that was justice, I don't know what justice is.

They hurt my wife, too, or she would not have shrieked out so. And her word always had been--'Hold out; pain may be borne; and they dare not kill us!' But when she saw them tie me up, she cried out, 'Oh, Pierre, Pierre, give in--give in!' So what was I to do? Answer me that."

"This poor fellow has lost his senses," said Antoine, softly. "Wait here a minute. I will soon return."

I stood where I was. It seemed to me from the charred remains that the furniture had been just broken up and then partially burnt. There was a great beam across the ceiling, with large iron hooks on which to hang bacon, onions, and such-like. From one of these hooks dangled a strong chain.

"They drew me up with that," said he, turning his dull eyes on me, and the next instant looking away. "They pa.s.sed the chain under one of my armpits, and so suspended me; and then beat me. I was not going to stand that, you know. My wife ran away, calling on me to give in; so what could I do? Could I help it? Am I a renegade?"

I said, "Let us remember David's words--'Have mercy on me, O Lord, for my sin is great.' He did not say, 'for my sin is little--a very little one--the first I ever sinned;' but 'my sin is great;' and therefore have mercy on me. Say it after me. 'Have mercy on me, for my sin is great.'"

--"For my sin is great," repeated he, melting into tears. And again and again he repeated, weeping, "For my sin is great--my sin is great. Have mercy on me, O Lord, for my sin is great."

"He also hath forgiven the wickedness of thy sin," said I. "Let us turn unto the Lord, for he will heal us, and not be angry with us for ever."

Antoine drew me away. We left the poor man in tears, and went into the yard, where stood a cart, with a sorry horse in it, and a heap of loose f.a.gots and pieces of broken furniture beside it.

"Get you in here, sir, and lie down," said he. "I will pile the wood over you as lightly as I can."

I did as he desired. He bestowed the wood over me as carefully as he could, and then led the horse out.

"Whither away?" said somebody, pa.s.sing.

"To dispose of this rubbish," said he, carelessly. "Poor Pierre's chattels have been reduced to mere firewood. If a trifle can be got for them, it may buy him bread."

I thought of the two messengers to King David, whom a woman concealed in a well at Bahurim, spreading a covering over the well's mouth, and spreading ground corn thereon. I was startled when the man said,

"I have a mind to buy it of you: it will do to heat my oven."

"But this load is engaged already," said Antoine.

"Why did you not say so at first? You said you were going to see if you could get a trifle for it."

"I confess I expressed myself badly. My poor brother's sad state has bewildered me. Go you, and look in on him, and see what a pitiable object he is."

"Well, I think I will. What is the value of this load, as it stands?"

Antoine seemed so disposed to haggle for it that I confess I quaked; however, he set such a high value on it that the other demurred.

Happily we got out of the town without further molestation. I was very much cramped, but that was no matter. The church-bells began to ring; and Antoine said, in a low voice, "How pitiable are the poor people who are now going to vespers on compulsion! Where will all this end? Can it be that he who now goeth forth weeping, and bearing good seed, shall return again in joy, bringing his sheaves with him?"

I said, "The Lord's hand is not straitened, that he cannot save. What is impossible with man is possible with G.o.d."

"Oh that we may live to see it, sir."

We came up with a wagon, with the driver of which Antoine fell into conversation for some time, but what they said I could not well hear.

At length we reached the water-side, at a landing-place where a boat laden with kitchen stuff was awaiting us. Here Antoine saw me safely placed in charge of the boatman, who bade me never fear, for he would safely carry me to Bordeaux. We pushed off: the moon shone cold and bright; the air on the river felt fresh and chill. The boatman threw a warm covering on me, bade me sleep, and began a monotonous boat-song.

I soon slept.

When I awoke it was late in the morning, for the bright October sun overhead was making the rapid Garonne quiver in a sheen of golden light.

I found we had made good progress, and were not many hours from our destination. I found it inexpressibly pleasant to float down that bright river, as it carried me to new scenes, which love, hope, and inexperience painted in pleasing colors. My feet were sufficiently painful for me to be glad to lie idly among the piles of cabbages and while the time in day-dreams. Aged confessors might go forth sighing, "How shall we sing the Lord's song in a strange land?" but to the young and buoyant, change of occupation and foreign travel have great allurement, even when rudely come by.

The boatman seemed an honest poor fellow. Sometimes he exchanged greetings and jokes with other boatmen; sometimes he sang s.n.a.t.c.hes of plaintive songs, such as

"N'erount tres freres N'erount tres freres N'haut qu'une soeur a marida:"

for his mother was from Languedoc. At other times he talked to me quietly.

"Yours seems a contented, merry life, said I.

"Well, I make it so," said he. "Where is the good of picking up troubles? they come sure enough. Once I was foolish enough to think 'What a poor lot is this, to be pulling a market-boat up and down stream, with greens for the seafaring men, while others go riding on horseback or in carriages, wear fine clothes, feast every day, and go to theatres at night.' But when the dragoons came I was thankful to be what I was. Did you hear what happened to Collette at our place? Collette was the prettiest girl of our village, and a good girl, but a thought too vain. Perhaps it is too much to expect a woman not to be vain when she is pretty, but all are not. Collette's skin was like lilies and roses.

When the dragoons were let loose on us they burnt her father's furniture, and beat him within an inch of his life. They asked Collette if she would go to ma.s.s: she said, 'I will not.' They pulled her hair, beat her, pinched her, but she only said the more, 'I will not.' Then a dragoon said, 'This girl is too pert, her conceit must be lowered a little.' And he took a comb off her toilette, and drew it down her face two or three times, quite hard, till it was scratched and scored all over. Conceive how the poor thing was cut up! She burst into tears, and said, 'Take me to a convent; I don't care where I go now, so that I am not seen. I shall never be worth looking at again.'"

"But what an unworthy motive for an unworthy act!" cried I.

"But only think how she was goaded to it!" said he. "Women think so much of their looks. I am told the dragoons have tried that trick with many ladies of quality."

"If they deserved the name of men they would be ashamed of it."

"Well, I think so too; but see how they treat the men! Have you seen a chain of galley-slaves on their way to Ma.r.s.eilles? Certainly no treatment can be too bad for the infamous, but that n.o.bles and gentlemen should be fettered along with felons, forgers, murderers, and such-like--ah, 'tis too bad!"[1]...