"Whom do you speak of, Sir?" demanded Clémence. "I do not know whom you mean."
"Why, the General to be sure," replied the man, "the Commander-in-Chief,--your husband--the Count de Morseiul."
The blood rushed up into the cheek of Clémence de Marly. "You are mistaken," she said; "he is not my husband."
"Then he soon will be," replied the man with a laugh; "though the grave is a cold bridal bed.--I know that, lady!--I know that full well; for when I held her to my heart on the day of our nuptials, the cheek that used to feel so warm when I kissed it, was as cold as stone; and when you come to kiss his cheek, or brow, too, after they have shot him, you will find it like ice--cold--cold--with a coldness that creeps to your very soul, and all the heat that used to be in your heart goes into your brain, and there you feel it burning like a coal."
Clémence shuddered, both at the evident insanity of the person who was talking to her, and at the images which his words called up before her eyes. He was about to go on, but a tall, dark, powerful man came in from the cottage door where he had been previously standing, and laid hold of Herval's arm, saying, "Come, Keroual, come. You are only frightening the lady; and, indeed, you ought to be upon the march. What will my Lord say? The fit is upon him now, Madam," he continued, addressing Clémence, "but it will soon go away again. They drove him mad, by shooting a poor girl he was in love with at the preaching on the moor, which you may remember. I am not sure, but I think you were there too. If I could get him to play a little upon the musette at the door, the fit would soon leave him. He used to be so fond of it, and play it so well.--Poor fellow, he is terribly mad! See how he is looking at us without speaking.--Come Keroual, come; here is the musette at the door;" and he led him away by the arm.
"Ay," said the old shepherd as they went out, "one is not much less mad than the other. There, they ought both to have gone to have joined the Count last night. But the burying of poor Monsieur de l'Estang seemed to set them both off; and now there are all the men drawn out and ready to march, and they will sit and play the musette there, Lord knows how long!"
"But what did they mean by asking if I were ready?" said Clémence. "Do they intend to take me with them?"
"Why yes, Madam," replied the old man; "I suppose so. The litter was ready for you last night, and as the army is going to retreat I hear, it would not be safe for you to stay here, as the Catholics are coming up in great force under the Chevalier d'Evran."
Clémence started and turned round, while the colour again rushed violently into her cheeks; and then she covered her eyes with her hands, as if to think more rapidly by shutting out all external objects. She was roused, however, almost immediately, by the sound of the musette, and saying, "I will go! I am quite ready to go!" she advanced to the door of the cottage.
It was a strange and extraordinary sight that presented itself. Herval and Paul Virlay, dressed in a sort of anomalous military costume, and armed with manifold weapons, were sitting together on the stone bench at the cottage door, the one playing beautifully upon the instrument of his native province, and the other listening, apparently well satisfied; while several groups of men of every complexion and expression, were standing round, gazing upon the two, and attending to the music. The air that Herval or Keroual was playing was one of the ordinary psalm tunes in use amongst the Protestants, and he gave it vast expression; so that pleasure in the music and religious enthusiasm seemed entirely to withdraw the attention of the men from the madness of the act at that moment. Paul Virlay, however, was mad in that kind, if mad at all, which is anxious and cunning in concealing itself; and the moment he saw Clémence, he started up with somewhat of shame in his look, saying,--