# The Rebellion in the Cevennes/Volume 2/Chapter IV

CHAPTER IV.
The greatest agitation prevailed in the city of Nismes. New arrests had taken place, suspicion had increased still more, and many noblemen, who until then had escaped observation, were shut up in the prisons. No condition, no inhabitant was now deemed in safety, treachery lurked in every house. The Marshal had brought some of his ci-devant friends, even ladies, to a strict trial.
The amiable hero was concealed in the severe judge. The Intendant had never yet been so pleased with his opponent. The consternation was still greater in the country, and those who dwelt in the château, no longer knew how to escape the mistrust and suspicion of the rebellion, ​particularly the newly converted, whose assurances were not trusted, and whose devotedness and patriotism were no longer valued.
The physician, Vila, was also obliged to proceed to the city to answer numerous accusations against him. Deeply afflicted as he was, he however testified no depression or humiliation before his judges, but was able to refute with perfect composure all that they would lay to his charge. The Intendant as well as the Marshal were undecided, whether they ought to impute his self-possession and security to innocence, or to the obstinacy of a rebel.
"No, my honoured lords," said he, as he stood before them in the hall surrounded by a great number of officers and civilians; "I have nothing to do with these most unfortunate affairs, for it is impossible that any one would lay to my charge as evil propense, that I recently intended to cure the Lord Marquis without a wig, an occurrence, which may indeed be astonishing enough, ​but which however does not render the extremity necessary, that you should now immediately cause my head to be taken off, whereby I should become an entirely useless and slaughtered man."
"Be serious sir," replied the Intendant in the greatest anger, but with a calm exterior: "what took you to the mountains some time since? wherefore that disguise of which you yourself have complained?"
"Irrepressible curiosity, my noble Lord," said Vila, "as an inquisitive doctor, I also wished to thrust my nose for once into these spiritual monstrosities. In my youth, I knew only of four great and twelve lesser prophets of the bible, the thousand great, and twenty thousand lesser of our times seemed to me so little plausible, that I wished to see some examples of them in my proximity, and to examine myself their ascribed characters."
"And you persuaded your son and the young Edmond to accompany you there?"
The old man paused a while, and was ​obliged to wipe his eyes. "Pardon," said he then, "man is affected, though already old, by certain sensations, a kind of cold, which operates on the tear vessels; perhaps you may have already experienced this. Strong snuff produces the sensation. Yes, it was I indeed that induced the young men to this folly. I could never have thought that the young lads would have made a serious affair of it. They should only have reflected on themselves, collect psychological observations, to strengthen thereby their own mature wisdom and corroborate all noble religion; and the simpletons act like that peasant, who is to take only twelve drops daily from a phial, and would rather swallow down the whole bottle with cork and label. But believe me the cholic will not delay coming, and it will require skill to empty the body of the devilry again."
"You appear to consider the affair on the jesting side," cried the Marshal.
"Certainly," said the old man, who ​could not however restrain his tears, and was obliged to repress his sob by a strong effort; "it is still pleasant enough, that I have not slept since the last three days, still less have I been able to enjoy anything; that my cursed imagination represents my unhappy son upon the scaffold, suffering the most ingenious martyrdom, and looking upon me with the same dark eyes that sparkled in his childhood when he ardently desired a fruit, or a toy. I believe too that I look rather pale and sorrowful, and whatever you may ordain, I shall bear my head heavily on my weary shoulders for the future."
"You know then that your son as well as the young Edmond has gone over to the rebels?" said the Intendant sharply with his icy coldness: "and who will assure us that this did not happen by your counsel and suggestions?"
"No man will be security for me," answered, the father with quiet composure, "and of myself, of my many years of ​probity and an assurance, by my honour, I will not even speak, for that appears to myself absurd. No, my highly honoured lords, my counsel would never have been able to produce so strange a metamorphosis in a vagabond, who has hitherto only interested himself in plants and antiquities, or to make of a catholic enthusiast a fanatic and a rebel; but if I may be permitted to speak for a moment as a father, it rather appears to me, that you, my most worthy judges, are the authors of it, without its being exactly your intention it is true, and may be the cause why so many other fanatics will run to the mountains."
"Well, this impudence," exclaimed the Marshal.
"Suffer the unhappy man to speak," interrupted the Intendant, "he is doting in his sorrow, and it is not unreasonable to hear all that he may bring forward for his defence." "I only say," continued Vila, "that, with the very best intentions to put down this rebellion, you add strength ​to it, for it is precisely the peculiarity and perversity of the human mind, (and in this I only say what has been of very old standing) that prohibitions and obstructions irritate and place the punishable case in a seductive, enchanting light. That, which at first appeared indifferent and often unimportant, now presents itself with a kind of glory, danger entices; if only a few victims deriding it, have fallen, passions master the heart, and the same, who a short time previously preserved his faith in silent doubt, feels now in each emotion of caprice, and of anger, the immediate voice of his persecuted God. He now refutes his adversary with murder and massacre, as if he would correct the erroneous reading of his mind in his mangled body. The true believer cannot naturally bear such a turning over the leaf, he waits with stump and stalk to root out of the breast the perverted and corrupted text. On both sides the commentators excite one another, each becomes fiercer and more violent, ​reconciliation is no longer to be thought of, instruction profits not, and whoever wishes to step in coolly and moderately between them is a horror to both parties. You see indeed all the pills, that you, my honoured Lord Marshal cause to be turned and moulded and which the thousand surgeons press upon the perverted, have not purged them of the evil, nor even ameliorated it. What does it profit then that the busy men so diligently assist with their bayonets, nor do these lances, nor the incisions of the gentlemen dragoons improve the blood. Also your imprisonments and executions in the public places have no success. What can your reasoning, your cold, calm persuasions effect, that the whole country, frankly speaking, stands like a great, disbanded madhouse, where the lunatics with their dogmas rage against one another, and like dogs, set on to fight, gnash with their teeth. I think the air is infectuous, and renders insane, and thus it has happened to young Edmond and my poor ​son. Whom the devil rides, cannot certainly affirm that he possesses au abundance of free will to go and come; but what could have bribed me to lay the stirrup on the shoulders of my only son, in order that the black raven father of all lies might be able to mount him more comfortably? only reflect on that yourselves, generous men."
"I but half understand you," said the Marshal.
"I pardon much in consideration of your grief," replied the Intendant.
"But why has not the Lord of Beauvais appeared at our trial?" recommenced the general; "wherefore is he fled? Does not that action bespeak him criminal? and do you know anything of him and of his retreat? can you impart to us some information of his proceedings? do you keep him concealed? confess the whole truth."
"Your excellency," said the doctor, "the old sinner has assuredly escaped because he is indeed suspected, even by me, and ​certainly could not appear here with safety and decency."
"Proceed," said the Lord of Basville, "you are approaching nearer the point to my satisfaction."
"You know it as well as I do," replied Vila, "the scandal is notorious throughout the whole country. He would have been forced to come here baldheaded to speak and answer. I will even consent that one may dispense with ruffles, lay down his sword, embroidery on the garments, or the cravat may also without herisy be esteemed as superfluous; but if you consider, that for more than ten years, he lived there yonder in his desert without a wig like a Theban hermit, you cannot then possibly have any confidence in the orthodoxy of his sentiments. How should his head remain sound, when he gives himself up, thus naked to all weathers, all society, all sorts of phrases, wit, and nonsense. It is indeed like a fortress, where they have broken down the walls and redoubt. There, ​in war, all the rabble ride in without obstruction." "You are childish," said the Lord of Basville, "but where does the Lady of Castelnau remain, you must know that she has disappeared. In all these circumstances we see, say what you will, a concerted plot."
"Ah poor Christine!" sighed Vila plaintively; I now know for the first time, how much I have loved the noble girl. She is no longer indeed in her house, but the Lord Marshal will best be able to give intelligence of her retreat."
"I?" demanded the latter.
"All the world says, at least," continued the doctor, "that you have caused her to be incarcerated, and that is not entirely without probability, as the imprudent girl, some time ago, wholly lost sight of the esteem she owes you."
"It were derogatory to my dignity," said the Marshal, "to revenge inpertinences by means of my office.
"Where one cannot inspire love," said ​the doctor, "which one may reasonably expect, then terror and the due punishment of the object must suffice." "I give you my word of honour, I know nothing of the little fool!" said the Marshal blushing.
"It is very possib1e," answered Vila, "that you do not know exactly in which dungeon she languishes, since within the last few years we have considerably increased these establishments."
"Sir!" exclaimed the Marshal,—"I think, my Lord Intendant, we may dismiss this dotard, for it is in vain to hope to hear a word of sense from him. You may thank the Lord Marquis amd his zealous intercession, or rather his caprice, not to suffer himself to be cured by any one else, that your insolence, which affects madness, is permitted to go from hence unchastised. But beware that you hold no correspondence with the rebels and suspected persons, or we shall speak again together and then in a higher tone."
"As it may please you to order it," said ​the doctor, and retired with a low bow. His carriage stood at the door, he went however first into the stables of the court to seek an old servant, whom he intended to take to St. Hypolite with him, the latter advanced groaning, limping and with head and arm bound up. "Coachman," cried Vila to his driver, "make room on the box for this old servant of mine."
In the mean while Colonel Julien came down the streets; "What sort of merchandise are you carrying off with you there?" asked he, scrutinising the wounded man.
"My superannuated Conrad," replied the doctor; "the stupid knave found himself in a village yesterday and took it into his head to engage in the conversion of a Camisard, who in the true rebel fashion began to deal out blows, my decrepid enthusiast would let neither his king, nor his Lord God be outraged and on that account is so bedecked, that our Phylax at home will scarcely recognise him again."
"Look," said the Colonel, "the poor ​cripple trembles so, that he cannot attain the high coach—box. He does not appear accustomed to such a place. Help him a little, reverend priest."
The sturdy vicar of St. Sulpice, who had pressed forward, helped up the old man with arms and shoulders. "Accustomed, or not accustomed!" cried Vila, vexedly, "he may thank heaven, that I take him with me at all. A knave, who at his years still addicts himself to pugilism, is good for nothing in my peaceable house. Times, indeed, seem, strange enough, so that the rabble will soon, perhaps, assert their pretensions to ride with me in my carriage."
"You would have room enough," said the Colonel, taking leave of the doctor, who had already seated himself at his ease.—
"Now, drive on!" said Vila, "and not too fast, particularly over the stones, for all my sides, and my head into the bargain, are as if they were crushed, and take care ​that that old spectre does not perchance tumble from the box;—Adieu, reverend priest!"—The coach drove down the street and out through the gate.
The high road was filled with soldiers and militia, the coach was forced to stop in many places to let the troops go by. At length, when they had taken another road towards the mountains, the journey could be continued without interruption. The doctor was very uneasy, and looked round on all sides, muttered to himself, and was alternately moved and vexed. At last, when the country became rather solitary, he ordered the carriage to stop, descended and assisted. the wounded Conrad, as he had called him in the town, himself, from the coach box. "My poor, old friend!" exclaimed he embracing him with the greatest emotion: "How fares it with you? do you feel fatigued" come now inside here with me, and pardon all that I have been forced to do for your safety."
"I am tolerably well, my kind, faithful ​friend," answered the Lord of Beauvais: "but render me one more loving service, that we may once more visit the ruins of my dwelling."
Vila gave directions to the coachman, and they both ascended into the carriage.
"But why will you make your heart still heavier?" commenced the doctor. "Come rather directly with me, that I may conduct you to the little rural asylum, in order to conceal you there until better times. For it is not to be thought of, that they will now be able to carry you over the frontiers in safety."
"Oh my poor country!" sighed the Counsellor of Parliament: men of probity must now seek hiding-places like criminals. I will only go once more to the great hall: an iron closet has perhaps been spared by the robbers and the flames, in it lies the portrait of my wife, which in the hurry, I forgot to pack up. It would be very painful to me to lose this dear remembrance." The sun had already set, and they were ​now approaching their native, well-known place. From the blackened walls, dense, smoky clouds were still rising, although the fire appeared extinguished. The carriage stopped, the travellers descended from it; a lantern was lighted, and the Counsellor could not avoid wondering at the difficulty he experienced in finding his way through the formerly so well-known mansion. Fallen beams reduced to cinders lay extinguished, and obstructed the entrance to the hall, ashes and rubbish filled the vast space, it was impossible to recognise any thing, the walls alone still indicated the former seat of happiness and peace. The lantern threw a pale wavering glimmer over the sad destruction, and while the father tremblingly felt about by its light for the closet, he though he heard a voice in another apartment.
As he listened more attentively, all was still; yet after a short interval, a deep, painful sigh was heard again, and then as if from a heavily oppressed bosom ​resounded these words: "Yes, my sinful fire has laid this dwelling in ashes, my wicked impetuosity has murdered the happiness of this beloved house."
"Oh my unhappy son!" exclaimed the old man as he endeavoured to reach that apartment; but Edmond advanced immediately, sank down before him and embraced his knees. "Can you forgive? can you still love me?" cried he in violent emotion; "I, I, wretch that I am, have flung the brand into this house, I have rendered you and my sister miserable, I am indeed the cause of your death. Oh most gracious, mildest of men, with what a torn heart do I lie here at your feet, unworthy to embrace them, unworthy of the dust.—"
The old man raised, pressed him to his heart and said: "Not so, my son, we are not to criticise and blame the ways of destiny in so short-sighted a manner. It was you, as I well know, who delivered me from the hands of the incendiaries. Your heart has remained to me; those walls, this ​inanimate possession belonged not to my happiness and existence, you are nearer to me, you are, God be praised! not lost to me. Let me enjoy the satisfaction of having found you again among the ruins, and I will thank Heaven with heartfelt tears for my calamity. Follow me now and abandon your unfortunate covenant. The time and favourable moment will be found, when we may fly over the frontiers of our native land, and under another sky be permitted to rear the blessing of our love again."
"Only require not this of me, generous man," cried Edmond, as if in unconscious anger: at least I must punish, avenge, retaliate in some degree on our and God's foes. Oh Catinat! how unjust I have been in censuring thee. No, I will not degrade mercy so far by wasting it on these wretches, who might take the tiger in apprenticeship in order to augment his malice and cruelty."
Vila came up with the lantern and turned the light upon the youth's pale, agitated ​countenance, saying with the greatest good nature: "ah! Ned! my boy! be advised: now for once only follow your aged parent there, who has ever merely required from you what is quite reasonable."
"Leave vengeance to Him," said the father in a powerful voice, "to Him, who rules, permits and superintends all, and in whose almighty arm our wrath and weakness, are no longer vengeance! I do not understand the word. Our hearts were not created for this feeling."
"Still and ever the same folly!" cried a deep voice fnom behind and the gaunt figure of the grey-headed Lacoste was groping his way towards them in the dark, over heaps of rubbish. "Vengeance! hatred!" exclaimed he; "who knows not those sentiments, knows love but in part. Knowest thou me still, thy rival, the Lacoste, whom thou renderedst many years ago so unhappy? Who meant thee evil were it not for thy gallant Edmond."
"How comest thou here?" cried the ​father astounded. "What art thou doing here?"
"I am become thy son's dog," replied the former, "I do him what service I can, at least I run after him, out of gratitude, because he has saved my life."
"I have scarcely time and feeling," said the Lord of Beauvais, "to wonder at this extraordinary rencontre."
"The hour presses indeed," cried Vila, "we have yet a long way before us and we must take advantage of the night."
"Here is the concealed closet still unconsumed," cried the Counsellor of Parliament, "just as I had supposed." He took a key, opened and held a light into it, among various articles, which were kept there, he found the picture in a little casket. He gazed upon it with tears, and was going to attach it to his person, when Lacoste seized his hand and said: "Only one moment, for the sake of former acquaintance and friendship: suffer this face after so many years to blossom once again in my desolate heart."
​The father gave it to him trembling; Lacoste held it close to the light and gazed fixedly on it with his widely opened grey eyes; a tear unconsciously escaped him, he imprinted a kiss on the portrait and returned it to the Counsellor. "See, see," said he to himself, "every man remains still a fool, let him behave as he will. If they can feel and imagine as much over their relics, as I at this moment feel, then the unfortunate ones are not so entirely in error."
"Roland is stationed in the neighbourhood with his troops; a few of us may conduct your dear father, as far as you wish, so that at least our party does not harm you."
"Prudently spoken," said Lacoste, "for we are, with permission, very outrageous people."
The Counsellor of Parliament re-ascended the carriage with his friend, saying: "We are now indeed so far on our road, that the usual precaution becomes superfluous. Let us only be careful, that our ​friend Vila meets with no misfortune on our account." "Were my son only reasonable," said the latter, "they might do what they liked with me, old, half dead and worn out sinner; to die is almost a diversion to be sought for, to that have the ruling lords pushed affairs."
They drove off, and Edmond and Lacoste followed on horseback, in order to accompany them to Roland’s troop.