“Pardieu!� the soldier exclaimed with a laugh. “I will borrow to-morrow morning. We have a bag of heretics here.�
“Mère de Dieu, burn them,—all but the shoes!� said le Bossu, and walked calmly on.
CHAPTER XIX
“MORTIS PORTIS FRACTIS�
It was daybreak; the pale sky was luminous, and the golden east throbbed with the approaching glory. Already the hill-tops were radiant, but the low country lay in the shadow, and a white mist floated over the valleys. The air was full of the twittering of birds, and all the life in Nature began to stir. There were no travellers on the highroad so early, save one, a corpulent priest, mounted on a stout mule, proceeding toward St. Cyr. Père Ambroise detested extraordinary exertion, but he had yielded to the importunities of the cobbler. For his own part, he thought that ten o’clock was soon enough to deal with M. de Baudri, but he had roused himself and set out at an unearthly hour because of le Bossu’s representations. No man could regret the trouble at the château de St. Cyr more sincerely than he did; he had labored to protect these two defenceless women, and he saw no profit in madame’s arrest. Père Ambroise would never be numbered with the persecutors; he cared more for a bottle of good wine from the vintage of the Vaunage than he did for the arrest of a score of heretics. Besides, he had no real love for M. de Baudri, and he foresaw M. de Baudri’s triumph. Père Ambroise wanted to convert Rosaline; he wanted to see her either in a convent or wedded to a good son of the Church, but he could not digest the prospect of this particular bridegroom. He had not the smallest respect for Rosaline’s religious convictions or scruples; it was impossible for him to regard them with anything but contempt or hatred, but he really cared for the girl’s welfare. He had known her from a child, and he felt a sincere affection for her. For her sake he had spared Madame de St. Cyr, and he had no desire now to give her pain. He rode along, therefore, revolving all these matters in his mind, and wondering how far he could trespass on the patience and friendship of the Intendant of Languedoc,—the only man who could take M. de Baudri in hand. The result of Père Ambroise’s ruminations was not satisfactory; he advanced at a leisurely pace, for his mule was nearly as stout as he was, and the sun rose in all its splendor as he approached St. Cyr. He disliked effort and excitement, and he could devise no easy and comfortable way out of the dilemma. After all, perhaps she would have to marry M. de Baudri; at least, that ought to bring her into the church, and if she remained a heretic? Well, Père Ambroise reflected with a broad smile, that alternative would furnish him with a rod to hold over the stubborn head of M. le Capitaine. The good father’s fat sides shook a little with silent laughter as he drew rein at the gate of the château. Âme de St. Denis! he would make M. de Baudri dance to a pretty tune before the Intendant; there were compensations, no matter what the result.
The sentry—the same young man who had been disciplined by Babet—received the priest with respect; his instructions had not mentioned Père Ambroise, and the stout, black-robed figure ambled placidly up the gravel path and entered by way of the kitchen. This was empty, for Babet had deserted her fortress for the moment to wait on her young mistress. The priest proceeded through the house and was greeted at the stairs by Truffe, who knew him. He climbed up in a leisurely way, panting at each step, and, entering the sitting-room, found Rosaline and her faithful attendant. The young girl hailed his entrance with relief and hope, and something like life came back into her white face.
Père Ambroise was touched by her evident confidence in his good-will, and seating himself comfortably, he dismissed Babet with a placid air of authority that sent her fuming to the kitchen, where she resumed her task of heating the fire-irons. She was determined not to be taken unawares, and the sentry—perfectly acquainted with her occupation—kept his distance and bided his time.
Meanwhile, in response to a few well-directed questions, Rosaline told her story, which was substantially the same as the one already recited by le Bossu. A man less keen than Père Ambroise would have detected her resolution in her manner, and he was not unprepared for her answer when he asked her what she intended to do. She was standing in front of him, her hands clasped loosely before her, and her head erect, but her face was like marble, white and still.
“I have no choice, mon père,� she said, in a low voice; “no one cares for a heretic. It is my duty to save my grandmother. I cannot let her die for my happiness! Mon Dieu! what a monster I should be! I must consent to M. de Baudri’s terms, and then—� she paused, drawing a deep breath and her clear blue eyes looked out, away toward the grim mountains of the north, “and then I know that the bon Dieu will release me. He will send me death—sweet death—for my bridegroom!�
Père Ambroise regarded her thoughtfully. For his times, he was a liberal man, and he did not immediately foresee hell fires. He saw only a pure and defenceless girl, and his heart smote him.
“The bon Dieu is offended with you for heresy, Rosaline,� he remarked calmly; “that is the cause of your misfortunes.�