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

CHAPTER V.
When the night was nearly elapsed and that Roland had long with-drawn with his troop into the distance, the little escorting band of Camisards was suddenly surprised, out of an ambush, by a considerable multitude of royalists. It was in the direction to Florac, where Vila with his friend had intended to seek a place of refuge, which he deemed safe. The confusion was general, and it seemed, that the destruction of the little troop of Camisards, as well as that of the travellers, was absolutely inevitable. During the firing and cries, Vila sprang from the carriage with pistols in his hand, and the Counsellor of Parliament followed him, without knowing clearly what was going to happen. By the grey light of the ​morning it was discovered that the attack was given from a valley lying sideways; the travellers were on the heights. The Counsellor of Parliament, who had quitted the carriage the last, saw immediately, that all were engaged in a mélée, the royalists seemed to give way, when a second troop rushed out of the underwood of whom it was difficult to decide whether they were soldiers, or rebels. Before however the Counsellor was able to gain any certainty, or to form any resolution, the coachman laid hold of him, pressed him urgently to get into the carriage, and as he saw the old man’s hesitation, he lifted him into it almost forcibly. "Better without the master, than to perish here with him, he will soon find us again," cried he in the utmost anxiety, and whipped the horses, so that they started off snorting in full gallop over hill and dale. After sometime the Lord of Beauvais recovered his recollection and with much argument and dispute, he compelled the obstinate man to stand still again. On ​the summit of a mountain, from whence they could overlook the whole surrounding country, they awaited the one, who had remained behind. Of the combat nothing more was to be discovered: it seemed as if far in the distance a band of fugitives was flying; but nothing could be clearly distinguished. At length they espied two riders emerge from a copse, who pursued the same road. They approached nearer and the doctor was now seen waving a handkerchief and working his way up to the summit, mounted on a little horse. A young lad with his head bound up was following him. "You did well," cried he, when he arrived at the top, "to retreat immediately at the commencement of the battle; that is dull, insipid business, which does not suit us civilians."
"There Martin, for such is your name, take the nag again to yourself and do what you will with him." With these words he dismounted, and betook himself to the carriage, where he was first obliged to ​listen to many self-praises from his coachman, who wished to appropriate to himself the whole credit of this clever retreat, and on account of whose over-haste, the Lord of Beauvais abashed, entreated the pardon of his old friend. "It was no over-haste," cried Vila, "but the most prudent that could have occurred, I ought to have remained sitting in the carriage, for my little bit of firing was like a drop in the stream compared to the bravery of the Camisards; with them none of us can engage. These knaves understand no reason, whether balls fly, or swords glitter, it is to them mere pastime, and the smallest boys, who are scarcely weaned from their mother’s breast, are just as much infatuated with this devilry as any of the oldest grey beards. I have seen that, for once quite close, which I could not have believed by hearsay; but now that I have witnessed it, it is enough for the rest of my life."
They stopped at a lonely inn to refresh the horses, and while they were enjoying their breakfast the doctor proceeded to relate ​the sequel of the event to his old friend. "How fortuuate," he commenced, "that you were not present at our battle, for only think, your Edmond continued to accompany us, he would not be dissuaded from attending in person to your safety. When the scene now opened he was ever foremost. There was a young lad, who then came forward. 'From whence come you?' shouted the Camisards.—'What’s that to you,' answered the impudent fellow.—'You are a traitor.'—'Wherefore insult,' cried the little man, 'honest people act not thus.'—'Hew him down!' cried another.—'Hew me down;' said the hop of my thumb, 'when I would sacrifice my life for you.'—'Who art thou?' was again reiterated.—'My name is Martin, further it is not necessary for you to know.'—Inquiry was cut short by firing and hewing down. It came near me, and I felt a goose-skin all over my body. I had already spent my powder without, perhaps, having hit any one, when the gigantic Lacoste took compassion ​on my trouble, and hewed down the knaves together as if they had been merely poppy heads. But Edmond who tried to cut his way through to me, got into a desperate mélée. Two dragoons fell upon him, and struck furiously; but before they were able to hit, behold, my dear friend—the little rascal Martin, cut down one of them from his horse, and shot the other at the same moment almost through the breast, as if the urchin had been accustomed to nothing else all his life long. The stout Lacoste, the dog as he styles himself, was not tardy either, and your son lost neither courage nor strength; the Camisards were like so many devils, and thus those of the true faith were obliged to leave the field to us, on which a great number of their friends remained lying.—I could not discern my poor, dear son; he may very likely have gone with the main body of the troops; if they have not already slain, or taken him prisoner."
"And Martin! the boy, of whom you spoke, who so valiantly saved my son’s life?" inquired the Lord of Beauvais.
​"Martin;" cried the doctor aloud: "where then do you hide yourself? yes, that’s true indeed, you are both indebted to the stripling. He wore, when he entered, a thick handkerchief round his head, it may have been from a blow that reached him; after he had rescued your son, he received a right deep cut in the head again from a sabre, so that a stream of blood gushed out. As if for a change, he wiped his nose and without ceremony bound a second turban over the first, though he turned ghastly pale from it.—Martin! Where then is the rascal!" But there was no one to answer his call. "Thus is it with foolish youth," said the doctor vexedly: "he has misunderstood me about taking back the horse, and in his simplicity returned immediately. Poor youth! I trust no fever may be added to it."
"It would make me miserable," said the Counsellor, "if I should not be able to testify my thanks to the dear boy. If I were pursuaded that he was suffering, ill, ​helpless, or dying, I should weep tears of blood."
"It will not turn out so bad as that," muttered Vila chagrined: "Why should the oaf run off thus, as if—Aye! Aye! at least I would have bound up his wounds for him. But now, the devil will not catch him directly. Such Camisard webs are usually formed of very tough materials."
They were compelled to proceed again, in order to reach with safety the solitary village in the mountain heights. "You must know," said the doctor, when they were again seated in the coach, "that it is merely to an old maidservant of mine I am now conducting you, a simple person, who served me long, but who is, however, so faithful and honest, that it is almost a scandal, what perhaps many free thinking exquisites would say of her. She has married a gardener, or peasant, who also plays the surgeon in the mountains. There you will pass for an old invalid cousin, whose house and farm the Camisards have set fire ​to; you will find your daughter there already, the intelligent child however must not betray you; the husband and wife would suffer themselves to be torn to pieces rather than give out any thing else of you. If you will but sit half an hour in the room with Barbara, she herself will take you for her cousin, and there will be no further necessity for lying. That is why such things often succeed better in this class than in a higher one: education they have none, but they possess the proper capacity for belief. Only lose not courage yourself, and in that solitude there do not become a timid hare’s foot. All may yet be well." With these and similar conversations they, at length, arrived in the afternoon at the village in the centre of the mountains. The houses lay dispersed midway, or above the declivity of the mountain; each had a garden and shrubbery attached to it, and the church situated on the highest point, looked down on the lowly cottages. The little dwelling, after which ​the travellers were obliged to inquire, stood at the extremity of the village, immediately over a rapidly flowing brook, a kitchen-garden was in front and a few chesnut, ash, and plaintain trees spread a shade and freshness around. When the travellers alighted, the rather elderly hostess advanced to the little vestibule to meet them. "Welcome! right we1come!" said she half jestingly, but with the heartiest good will: "So the old gentleman is my cousin? I rejoice in the acquisition of his relationship?" "Where is my daughter?" asked the Lord of Beauvais.
"Hush! hush!" said Barbara with a significant look; "my little cousin sleeps in the room above—which you too will now inhabit, my much honoured cousin."
"That’s all right," said the doctor: "only study nicely your expressions; and what is sick Joseph doing?"
"Ah, heaven!" said the old woman, "he did not get over his fright, the poor man ​has died at the next village below there, for when he was obliged to make off so quickly, helter skelter with my little cousin, and had lost his master, who had taken another road, and that the police officers became so troublesome, and the militia would also interfere, then all that affected his liver and spleen, and he died of it."
"Poor Joseph!" sighed the Counsellor.
"But pray, make yourselves comfortable," pursued the old hostess,—sit down then cousin, poor man, there on that soft chair; you must now forget, that you were formerly accustomed to anything better."
"Well," asked Vila, "and the household, how fares it? what is your husband doing?"
"Thanks for the kind inquiry," answered the chatterer; "Ah! dear God! nothing can be done with him, he will remain a boaster his life long."
"Wait until he comes a little to years," said Vila, "his petulance will then pass away."
​"Ah good heaven!" exclaimed she, "he is already past fifty; it does not depend upon that, God has permitted him to arrive at years of discretion, youth no longer oppresses him, but he is past all hope of amendment."
"Is he idle then? or does he squander your substance?"
"No," continued she quickly, "that must not be said against him, he spends nothing on himself, scarcely will he allow himself the extreme necessaries, and as to running about, working and lending a hand, he is not remiss, but he lays by no store. Indeed times are no longer as they were formerly."
"You get no profit then?"
"Just so, most respected doctor. Look you, here among us in the country, my old husband is called nothing, far and wide, but the clever man. Where an animal is sick, where a man is infirm, there is he called, and it must be true, that heaven has placed a very peculiar blessing in his hands, for ​almost whatever he merely touches becomes better. Where his misicaments, or his proscriptions fail, he is then compelled to have recourse to symphonies, or what you call the sympathretical system, and that is always among the peasantry most liked and most fructifying."
"You have then learned something from him," observed Vila.
"Should not something have devolved to me in so many years?" replied she modestly. "But if he would only not do so much without remuneration, all would be well and good. Look you, instead of planting cabbage, our little garden is full of learned rampons, and horse radish and onions with Latin names, which he then mingles or distils, as he calls it, and economises powders and opiates out of them that cannot be equalled. But they know already throughout the whole neighbourhood that he is a fool, for they frequently knock him up at midnight and summon him to a sick child, ​or to a tom-cat or taby-cat that has eaten or drank too much. And when they are to pay, the service is forgotten and there is no money in the coffers. 'They are poor people,' says the good-for-nothing fellow, 'they have already misery enough; and God be praised, we have never yet been in want of bread.'"
"Thus was he ever," remarked Vila. "I thought he would become more reasonable, and learn to think a little of himself He was always too devout."
"Devout!" exclaimed the wife: "ah heavens! your honour, me now come in earnest to the foul spot, No, Monsieur Vila, religion, or what people so call christianity, he is utterly deficient in."
"How then has he thus fallen into error?" asked the old man.
"The Lord knows best," answered she, "who has created him so confused. He will ruin himself yet with his curing. Look you, it is not alone his companions of the faith, the Catholic Christians that he ​succours without remuneration, if they only give him the least hint of poverty; nay also—God be with us—the Huguenots and even the Camisards he attends, as one of us, if he can find an opportunity. The wounded whom they ought to have taken off to Florac swarmed here; look you, the God-forgetting man quartered, healed and fed them and occupied himself so much with them, that they were able afterwards to run of in health, and I will not answer for it, that he did not also give them money and the worth of money to take with them on the road. No, not a spark of true genuine faith and of proper christianity is in the man."
"He is probably a sort of Samaritan," said Vila affected.
"You are right, good sir," continuedi Barbara, "Samariter, or Samoid, and if he only does not turn out an anibaptist in his old days. Would you believe it, six weeks ago, when they gave up so many of those poor sinners to justice at Florac, ​thither did he run the first, and bound up the wounds of the sick and set their broken limbs. Husband, said I, they will certainly be put to the wheel, and hanged, there is nothing more to heal in them. Then said the simple fellow, God or nature had taken so much pains to suffer their joints, bones, muscles, and I know not what else to grow, that one is obliged out of charity to spare and take care of them as long as they will last. Look you, he has such enthusiasm stuff in his head that, as the saying is, he is Jack in every corner, where there is only any thing to doctor, should it even be the greatest criminal, there he is."
"I shall read him a sermon on that point," said Vila.
"That’s right!" cried she joyfully, "scold him a skin full, for he always says, that I am too stupid; and my persuasions tend to nothing." The woman had got up several times to look at the little bed. "Perhaps, you have a sick child there?" asked ​the doctor.—"Child!" answered she somewhat mockingly! "quite otherwise! only look at the present!—when she removed the cushion, there lay a cur dog with bandaged paws.—"The history," commenced the narrator, "correcterises exactly the simple man. The people about here often make him their laughing stock, because he is such a good-humoured, easy fellow; and so the smith at length gave him his dog to doctor, having in a passion broken its hind-paws in two with a hammer. My Godfred wrapped up the dog and dragged it home to me, bound up its wounds himself, laid him down, raised him up, suffered him not to run about, bound the cushion tight over him, made him a kind of maskinnery for his legs, because he said the dog would not be taken proper care of at home, and that he must have it under his own eyes. Well, my good smith’s dog became healthy again, and went off without saying good day, or by your leave. That may be about two months ago; last week, towards evening, ​something came scratching at our room door; come in! no one opened; but the scraping and scratching continued: so my Godfred opened the door and looked out, in springs our old smith's dog like a fool and behind him came hobling the diseased thing, the cur there with a broken leg dragging behind him, and the smith's dog danced and sprang, round my husband, as if to beg, and thus supplicated him that he would also doctor his comrade. In my rage, I seized the botanix stick from my old man to cudgel the curs out of the room. But he, as if affected, said, "Never could I have imagined so much understanding and gratitude in a dog," and immediately took him in his arms, examined his foot, bandaged it, and busied himself about the animal. "Gratitude!" cried I, "you call it thus, if the bull dog recommenders you to the cur which will afterwards spread the story about among all the dogs in the country, so that finally with all the fame of dog-pratix, you will no longer be able to stand, ​or walk? But all in vain! there is the beast, and I must attend to it, when the old fool is not at home."
The husband now returned, his arm full of herbs, which he immediately carried into a closet; he then saluted this guests quietly and affably, and before he sat down he looked after his four-legged patient, which in gratitude licked his hands, and looked fondly in his face. With the greatest composure and as if there was nothing a remarkable in it, he rebandaged the foot, placed the invalid again in its bed, which he also bound fast, then pressed its head down on the cushion, as if to intimate that it must now go to sleep. The dog seemed also to understand him, for he only blinked a few times up at his benefactor, and then resigned himself to sleep.
"Your wife here," commenced the doctor, "complains of you, that you do not think enough of your own concerns, you cure every body, even dogs and cats, and receive nothing for it, for this dog as little as for ​the former; have they not paid your bills yet?"
"I made none for them," said the old man with the driest gravity.
"Then I must make them out for you, you negligent fellow!" exclaimed Vila vehemently: "What; write out prescriptions for nothing? truly you degrade our whole art. Take this then on account of what the poor sinners, the wounded, the beggar-train, and the oppressed race of animals owe you up to the present."—He threw to the astonished and perplexed individual a heavy purse of gold, and without waiting for his thanks, he hastened out, and was already seated in the carriage before the rustic practioner had recovered from his astonishment. The Lord of Beauvais gazed with emotion after his rapidly departing friend.