“Death is so near us, life cools from its heat.”
E. B. BROWNING.
THE dark days of January did not pass quite uneventfully at Mazel. They brought an informal but kindly-meant intimation from the Commandant of St. Argrève that the bereaved family might remain where they were until the Intendant should make known his decision with regard to their dwelling. Then came tidings of comfort from the lips of those who had accompanied the captives to the Bates of Montpellier. They bore witness to the pastor’s calm, self-forgetting heroism; and to the growing courage and cheerfulness of his companions in suffering, to whom he was still God’s minister, unceasing in his efforts to strengthen and console them. And they thought the Commandant of Vernoux, M. de Davèze (who took charge of the prisoners during the whole journey), had been as courteous and compassionate as circumstances permitted.
Shortly after these tidings reached her, an anxiety of another kind disturbed Annette. The friends to whom she had sent little Claude informed her that Sisters of Charity, who were pursuing their vocation in the neighborhood, had begun to notice the child, to praise his beauty and intelligence, and to give him toys and sweetmeats. There were few things the Protestants of France dreaded more than to see their little ones caressed by strangers; and strangers who wore a religious garb were doubly dangerous. The abduction of Protestant children was by far the most cruel feature in the persecutions of the eighteenth century. It caused vastly greater, because more widespread, suffering than the gibbet, the galleys, or the dungeon. If unimpeachable contemporary testimony did not remain to prove its appalling frequency, this would now be considered simply incredible. “No Protestant could be sure of embracing, on his return at night, those whom he left in his home in the morning.”
Annette knew too well what would follow the caresses and gifts of the Sisters of Charity. Some attractive toy―perhaps an Agnus Dei, or a gaily-painted picture of the Virgin―would be offered to the little heretic, who would readily accept the pretty plaything, and cherish it as a treasure. He would gladly go to such kind friends; and, in grateful return for bon-bons and dragées, would please them by repeating after them a few words in a language he did not understand. And this would be abundantly sufficient to warrant their representing that Claude Meniet, an intelligent child, “arrived at the age of reason” ―that is to say, seven years old―had evinced a desire to enter the fold of the Catholic Church. It would then become the duty of those in authority to foster such gracious dispositions, by removing him from his heretic parents or guardians; and an order for his forcible transfer to some convent or Jesuit school would be the inevitable result. It is true he was not yet seven years old. But how could that be proved, in the absence of any legal record of birth or baptism? It was possible, however, that those who longed so tenderly after the child’s soul might yield to the dictates of human prudence, and await the actual completion of his seventh year―the ripe age at which the laws of France permitted and encouraged Protestant children to abjure Protestantism, and thus remove themselves from parental control and authority.
It was enough for Annette Meniet to lose in one day husband and brother, without also losing her only son. In her alarm she sent for her boy, thinking him in less danger at Mazel than at Désubas. The play and laughter of the merry child brightened that sorrowful household. His presence was a comfort to all, except the poor invalid. She was very fond of her grandson, whom, in spite of strict theories of education, she sometimes indulged, even weakly; but as the child’s temper, like her own, was passionate, frequent collisions were unavoidable. René and Madeleine had often to exercise their ingenuity in keeping Claude amused and happy at a safe distance from his grandmother’s room.
At length January glided into February. It was the second day of the new month. René afterward retraced its every incident in the solemn light thrown back upon it by what was happening elsewhere, but at Mazel it passed like other days. Towards evening he was in one of the outhouses preparing food for the cattle, and indulging a bitter thought that even this was useless and thankless labor, of which only strangers would reap the benefit. He heard someone call him softly; but he did not at once recognize the voice. He thought it might be a bearer of the tidings they were longing for, yet dreading; so he hurried forth, without waiting to resume his coat, or lay aside the wooden fork he had been using.
Jean Desjours stood before him in the gathering twilight. He looked worn and haggard it does not improve the appearance, even of the bravest man, to have a price set upon his head. Yet there was not in his bearing the hopeless despondency René observed a short time before, but rather a trustful courage and resolution.
“Have you heard anything?” was his first word, as he grasped René’s hand.
René told him all they knew; but so much he had himself heard already. “But why are you here, Desjours?” he asked then. “Has your cousin, after all, proved unworthy of your confidence?”
“That indeed he has not. There is much good in Philippe. One black spot on a man’s face does not make him a Negro. He lies ill of his wound, and in great suffering, poor lad. But he would have sheltered me; ay, risked his life for mine. I know, however, that when he recovers he may be called in question for the part he played that Sabbath day; and if, besides, he were thought to have harbored me―What would you have me do?”
“What do you intend to do?”
“Cross the mountains; take another name; find work in a farm, or under a shepherd. But I thought to linger about here for a few days, until some certain tidings reach us.”
Here little Claude interrupted them. He had been sent to call René to supper.
“Tell Madame I am coming,” said René. Then to Desjours, with a little hesitation, “I am afraid I ought not to ask you to come in with me. Remain here; I will return soon, and bring you food.”
“Good! That just suits me. Scant credit as the world gives me for prudence, I am at least not mad enough to compromise Madame Meniet.”
But René did not find his part as easy as he expected. The severe morality of the Desert made no allowance for what are called “white lies.” Claude’s simple questions about the stranger he was talking with in the yard could not be answered or parried without awakening Madame Meniet’s apprehensions, which her sorrows rendered peculiarly acute. At last René found it necessary to tell her the whole truth. She was grieved; nay, almost angry with him.
“And you could leave outside our door, desolate and shelterless, the man on whose head a price is set for the love he bore my brother!” she said, reproachfully. “I cannot suffer it!”
At once she rose from the table, and went forth to seek the wanderer.
One moment’s pare joy and comfort reached the weary, storm-tossed heart of Jean Desjours when Madame Meniet took his hand in hers. They were not quite strangers to each other. Annette had sometimes seen him in her brother’s company, and had heard her husband rally him good-humouredly upon his enthusiastic devotion to him.
“My friend,” she said, “I know all you have done and suffered. In his name who is now, I little doubt, beyond all doing and suffering here below, I thank you. To me he is dearer than life; to you also, as you have nobly proved. Come in. It were strange indeed if you found no welcome beneath the last friendly roof that sheltered him.”
But Desjours, though touched, was firm. “I have caused trouble enough already,” he said. “I would not injure anyone; you least of all, madame.”
Annette, however, could be firm also. The debate lasted long, and ended eventually in a sort of compromise. Desjours accepted food and shelter, and a suit of clothes which one of the farm laborers had left behind. With the dress he assumed the duties of its late wearer; nor did it seem probable that he would thereby entail any risk of discovery upon himself, or endanger his kind entertainers.