“It’s no use to seek trouble, mademoiselle,� Babet remarked, “it’ll find us fast enough. I hear it grumbling like the thunder in the Cévennes mountains. As for that poor man, never you mind; Cavalier will catch some fat old curé for him!�
Retaliation was a salve to Babet’s moods; she was no saint and had no longing to be a martyr. Rosaline shook her head.
“It must end,� she said, rising. “I will go to my grandmother. You may cut the flowers to-day, Babet.�
She passed d’Aguesseau without a word; her emotion seemed to have separated her from him, and all that day she was sad and preoccupied.
As for François d’Aguesseau, he went out through the garden and passing the mulberry trees, descended a steep slope to the banks of a stream which flowed behind St. Cyr. Following this, he passed through a little forest of chestnut trees, heavily laden with green burrs, and came at last to a deserted windmill. The tower was white and solid, and the wheel still surmounted it though broken in several places, but the mill had long been unused. The door stood open—on rusty hinges—and a heap of straw lay in one corner, doubtless the resting-place of many a vagrant in those evil times. On the threshold d’Aguesseau sat down, facing the stream and the mossy slope. It was a favorite resort of his, because of its solitude and stillness. Here many a battle of the heart had been fought out, and here he came now to face another crisis. He sat there a long while, and it was very quiet. Now and then a chestnut burr fell with a soft thud in the little grove behind him; a squirrel came to the edge of the bank and then leaped away; a fish jumped out of the water and then plunged down again. Presently the breeze freshened, the old windmill creaked as it turned a little, and the leaves rustled softly. At last the sun sank lower in the west and sent long rays of light through the trees, and the clouds overhead grew rosy.
François rose and walked toward the château; he was resolved to live thus no longer. His presence was now more of a menace than a protection to the women there. He had read the look in M. de Baudri’s eyes, and he knew that he might expect the worst that a relentless enemy could do. But it was not that; Rosaline’s words had struck home. He too had been living a lie in security; he too felt himself a miserable coward before the self-devotion of these poor peasants and wool-carders. He must draw his sword for this forlorn hope; he must leave St. Cyr—ah, there was the pang! Could he protect her at a distance? Could he watch over her welfare while he fought with the Camisards? That was the chain that had held him, and now even that must be broken.
CHAPTER XIII
THE BATTLE HYMN
That night, when the shutters were closed and the doors secured, the family sat in an upper room. Babet had come in to hear the Bible read by Madame de St. Cyr, and they were all grouped about the table where the candles were burning. The old woman was reading in a low voice, with many pauses, and the faces around her were grave and even sad as they listened. Suddenly the dog sprang up from her place at Rosaline’s feet and began to bark, and the reading ceased.
“What is it? I hear something!� exclaimed the young girl, trying to silence Truffe.
Babet was listening intently.