Jacques Bonneval Part 8

"Will the Lord let them off easy?" said my father. "Christianity admits of no such temporizing. The early Christians might have saved their lives by burning a handful of incense before the Roman Emperor's statue; but they did not hold it a mere form. And the Romanists admit in principle what they dissent from in practice; for they almost deify those early martyrs for their constancy to the truth, and yet would martyr us for doing the very same thing."

"Well, I don't mean them to martyr me," said La Croissette, "I've an elastic creed, I!--it stretches or collapses like an easy stocking."

"Beware, beware, my friend, of fancying a creed like that of any worth at all."

"Sir, we all have our weak points and our strong ones. I'm no polemic, I!--I prefer meddling with things that will not bring me into trouble.

There was a factory burnt down last night--"

"Ah!" groaned my father.

"Some say both the partners were burnt; others that one of them is at a distance. Some think the factory was set on fire on purpose; others that it was an accident. Nothing remains of it but the outer walls and a smoking heap of ruins."

My father covered his face with his hand.

"Then, again," pursued La Croissette, "that worthy old Monsieur Lacca.s.sagne, unable to stand the deprivation of sleep any longer, has conformed--"

"Has he, though!" cried my father, with a start. "Oh, how sad a fall!"

"Outwardly, only outwardly," said La Croissette. "The poor old gentleman was driven almost out of his senses by that deafening drumming. 'You shall have rest now,' said the bishop. 'Alas!' replied he, 'I look for no rest on this side heaven; and may G.o.d grant that its doors may not be closed against me by this act.'"

"Poor old man! poor Monsieur Lacca.s.sagne!" e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed my father. "Well might he say so."

"Yes, but what reasonable person can suppose the doors of heaven will be closed against him by it?" said La Croissette. "The Lord is a G.o.d of mercy--"

"But will by no means clear the guilty," said my father.

"And He looketh not to the outward appearance, but to the heart," said La Croissette.

"That expression applies to the personal, bodily appearance, which none of us can help," said my father, "not to the pretence of believing one thing, when we believe, its opposite. I mourn over the backsliding of my old friend. Better had it been to suffer affliction for a season.

"So the virtuous lady his wife thought," said La Croissette. "She escaped in the disguise of a servant, and is now wandering in the open fields."

"Ah, what sorrow! May the good Lord support her under it!"

"Ay, and the many other women who are in similar case. Numbers of them are at this instant cowering in the cold and darkness in ditches and under hedges."

"Monsieur Lacca.s.sagne might well say he could hope for no rest on this side heaven," said my father, bitterly. "How can he rest, knowing that his excellent wife, accustomed to every comfort, is now an outcast for her faith--the faith which he has denied?"

"Well, I wish I could have brought you more cheerful news," said La Croissette, rising. "In truth, you need it, in this dismal hole, to keep up your spirits. Tell me, now, good sir, how long do you expect to be able, you and yours, to hold out?"

"Sufficient to the day is the evil thereof," said my father. "Thanks be to G.o.d, He does not require us to dwell on what may be in store for our chastening. He says explicitly, 'Take no thought for the morrow--the morrow shall take thought for the things of itself.' Words how kind and how wise!"

This seemed to strike La Croissette a good deal. He remained in thought a few minutes, and then said, "Well, it is time I should take my leave.

I respect you very much." Then, resuming his bantering tone, "Since you are so willing to hazard the disturbance which poor old Monsieur Lacca.s.sagne found it so hard to bear, I advise you to sleep day and night while you are here, and lay in a good stock of repose against the time when you will be deprived of it."

Stepping back again, just as he seemed going, he said, "You fancy yourselves very safe here; and, indeed, the dragoons unless with a guide to you, might possibly take some time to find you out; but depend on it, Les Arenes will be well searched some day--perhaps very soon; it is too well known as having been an old hiding-place. Every corner--this among the rest--is known to outcasts, many of them of bad reputation, who, for a morsel of bread, would give up St. Paul or St. Peter. All are not so, however, and those I am now among have a kind of the honor which exists among thieves. Do not depend too much on it, however."

And with this very unsatisfactory speech, he left us. My father, after brooding on what he had said for some time, knelt down, and was long in prayer: then he murmured, "I will both lay me down in peace and sleep: for thou, Lord, only makest me dwell in safety." And I knew soon, by his breathing, that he had indeed found rest in sleep. For me, I could not close my eyes: the text that dwelt in my mind was, "My soul is among lions." I thought of Madame Lacca.s.sagne and the other poor women wandering in the fields, and pictured a thousand distressing circ.u.mstances. Our solitary oil-lamp was beginning to languish for want of tr.i.m.m.i.n.g, and I thought, "What if it should leave us in darkness altogether, and we should never know when it is day?" and dwelt on the Egyptians in the plague of darkness, when none of them rose from his place for three days. I was so feverish that it seemed to me a darkness like that would madden me--I must dash my head against the wall, or do something desperate; and I thought of Jonah in the whale's belly, when the waters compa.s.sed him round about, and his soul fainted in that hideous darkness; and again it was "three days." Then I thought, "Why three days?" Was it because the Son of Man was three days in the heart of the earth? And shall we remain here in this subterranean darkness three days?

Just as the lamp seemed going out my loved mother stole out of the inner dungeon, and trimmed it; then noiselessly stole to my side, and, seeing my eyes open, smiled on me and kissed me, and then lay down beside my father. Oh, the peace, the security of her presence! I sank into dreamless sleep.

I was awakened by the most horrid noise I ever heard in my life. It seemed like the roar of a lion close to my ear, and I started up in wild affright, fancying myself a Christian prisoner about to be thrown to the wild beasts. All around was dark as pitch--the lamp had gone out! The frightful bellowing continued without intermission; and, besides, there were sobs and screams, brutal laughter and cursing. Dreadful moment!

Presently a spark of light momentarily illumined our cell, and showed the anxious face of my mother, as she re-kindled the lamp, surrounded by the terrified children and girls, roused from their sleep by the hideous uproar.

"Oh, what is it?--what is it?" cried I. My mother's lips moved, but she could not make herself heard. Having succeeded in lighting the lamp, she came close to me, and said--

"They seem to have put one of the bulls of La Camargue into the adjoining den for the next bull-baiting, and to have lashed it to frenzy with their goads. The noise is terrific, but I do not suppose the animal can break loose."

La Croissette now appeared among us, suffocating with laughter. "Are you frightened out of your lives?" said he. "'Tis nothing."

"Nay, sir," said my mother, "'tis something, I think, to be raised up in the middle of the night by such a dreadful noise."

"Night? 'tis broad daylight! No wonder you were frightened. I can hardly hear myself speak; but I felt impelled to come and see how you took it.

They have put an enormous bull in the adjoining den; and if you don't like his company, you will have to change your quarters, which I advise you to do at any rate; for the Basques who have him in charge are brutal fellows, whose jargon I don't understand. Ten to one they will discover you before the day's out; and then what will you do?"

"Truly, our case is hard," said my mother, looking wistfully at my father.

"It is so, my dear wife," replied he; "and I do not see my way clearly.

Let us ask G.o.d to make it a little clearer to us."

La Croissette looked amazed when he saw the whole family kneel down, and made a movement to go, but paused at the entrance and looked back on us. Though the bellowing still continued, it was neither so loud nor so frequent; but still only s.n.a.t.c.hes of my father's voice could be heard. But his very look and att.i.tude was a prayer; and there were the two sweet sisters, with their clasped hands and bent heads, and the little ones crowded about my mother. Now and then such broken sentences were heard as--"Lord, thou hast been our refuge from one generation to another--Thou hast set our iniquities before thee, our secret sins in the light of thy countenance--The dead bodies of thy servants have they given to be meat unto the fowls of the air, and the flesh of thy saints to the beasts of the land--We are become an open shame to our enemies, and a very scorn to them that hate us. Return, O Lord! how long? and let it repent thee concerning thy servants--Oh, satisfy us with thy mercy, and that soon; so will we rejoice, and give thanks to thee all the days of our life--Make thy way plain before us, O Lord, because of our enemies."

I could not help furtively watching the workings of La Croissette's face as he listened to these words of the Psalmist, so appropriate and pathetic. He started as if shot when touched by some one behind; and the next instant M. Bourdinave stood among us.

CHAPTER VIII.

PERSECUTED, YET NOT FORSAKEN.

"My father!" exclaimed the girls, and flew into his arms. The next instant the bellowing recommenced.

"What is that?" cried M. Bourdinave, starting.

"One of the bulls intended for baiting," said my father.

"Ah, what a vicinity to find you in?" said M. Bourdinave.

"Better, my dear friend, than the captives of old had in this very dungeon. And now, what news? Where have you been?"

"I'd better go; I'm not wanted." muttered La Croissette, heard only by me, and then retiring.

"I bring the worst of news," returned M. Bourdinave, sitting down. "The Edict of Nantes is revoked."

"Ah!" and a general cry broke from us.