CHAPTER XVI. L VICTORY. "Lubac n'est plus à plaindre, Il n'a plus rien à craindre, Ni rien à désirer." Complainte sur la Mort de M. Lubac (Désubas), ministre du Saint Évangile, ITTLE Claude, from one of the upper windows, saw the horsemen approaching, and gave the alarm. When therefore the officer, dismounting at the door, flung the bridle rein to his attendant, there already stood before him a fair, pale, graceful woman, whose claim to the letters he bore was not doubtful. With a courtly and respectful salutation he said, "I have, I presume, the honour to address Madame Meniet? I come from Montpellier; and I bear letters for madame from those of whom she most desires to hear." Annette rather motioned than invited him into the house. He followed her to the family room, where he instantly became the centre of a group, who stood around, awaiting his tidings in breathless silence. That day, for the first time, the shattered invalid had resumed her chair by the fire; herself sorrowfully wondering, as others could not fail to do, why a life so useless and burdensome was spared, whilst the young and gifted, whose lives were of priceless value, were laid low. Madeleine stood beside her, tenderly holding the feeble, withered hand. René, in his eagerness, drew nearer the stranger and recognised, to his surprise, the kind-hearted young officer, whose guide he had been at the cost of a bitter repentance. Claude kept close to his mother's side; Desjours and Babette stood in the background. Chantal looked around, first upon the little group, then, not without astonishment, upon the appointments of the room, which were those of an ordinary, though comfortable farmhouse. It would be hard to say what he expected to see there; but no mark of refinement or cultivation would have seemed to him out of place. Words were not found easily, though he had much to tell. It was Annette who broke the silence. "And my husband, monsieur ?" she asked, quietly taking for granted his friendly interest and compassion. "I am sorry, madame, to be the bearer of heavy tidings. M. Meniet is condemned to the galleys." "For-life?" The brief words were rather breathed than spoken. The young man bowed his head sorrowfully. The blow was borne in silence, as one long and certainly expected. Only the children wept quietly; and a low, heart-broken wail came from the lips of the aged mother, as she rocked herself to and fro. To him who told the tale, this calm seemed more sad than the wildest lamentations. But all was not told yet. "My brother?" Annette's pale lips murmured. "Madame, your noble brother is with God." "Since when ?" "Since the second day of this month." Then a strange and sudden change passed over the soul of Annette. He was no more her brother, the idol of her childhood and youth, the pride and joy of her maturer years; he was Christ's triumphant martyr, of whom she could think and speak calmly, as of St. Stephen or St. Paul. She could even wonder why the end had been delayed so long; usually, in such cases, a few days sufficed for the brief necessary formalities. "Why did they keep him out of heaven for those long needless weeks?" she asked. Had she known all, she would have accounted those weeks, as many another had cause to do, a treasure beyond price; the crown of her brother's brief, but most fruitful ministry. The young officer answered gently, "Madame, that life was precious, and there were many who desired to save it. It was thought hard that your brother should die by his own avowal, when no other legal proof existed that he had performed the functions of a minister. The Intendant referred the case to Versailles for special instructions. And in the mean time, promises, solicitations, entreaties were all exhausted to win from his lips. the one brief word that would have saved him, Not even I recant' was required of him. I doubt,' 'I will consider,' 'I desire instruction,' would have averted his doom." Annette spoke bravely now. "And you, monsieur, who wear the king's uniform over a heart-I know it—of untarnished honour, what would you have thought of him had he uttered that word?" "I can well understand, madame, a brave man's refusal to purchase life at the cost of honour. Pride-a noble pride-would sustain him. He would spurn the unworthy proposal from him with scorn; and hold himself, in dying, the conqueror of those who prayed him in vain to live. Not so your brother. He was ever serene and patient; full of sweet, self-forgetting courtesy, and of gratitude for what was kindly intended. He seemed to hold himself last and least of all, yet happier than all. Though he stood face to face with a cruel death, no man thought of pitying him. Rather it seemed as though he pitied those who sought to move him; but gently-in love, not in scorn. 'My lot is not sad,' I have heard that he said; 'it is one to be desired. I fear nothing; for the Lord is my Shepherd, my portion, my hope, and my strong fortress.'* The States of Languedoc, as you are probably aware, have just been "Complainte sur la Mort de M. Lubac." holding their assembly. The Bishop of Montpellier, and others of the higher clergy, often visited the captive, and tried their arguments and their eloquence." "Cowards!" murmured some one-probably Desjours. "Nay," said Annette; "I reproach not them, nor any, Yet monsieur can understand that to us it looks scarce heroic, or chivalrous, to bind an opponent hand and foot, to place the gibbet before his eyes, and then bid him contend for his faith." "In such a contest, madame, I have no difficulty in understanding who is the hero. I am no theologian; the points in dispute were incomprehensible to me, and in no way interesting; but those better informed frankly praised your brother's learning and ability, and his modest, gentle self-possession. The Bishop of Montpellier spoke of himand to him-with 'tenderness and affection.'" "God reward him!" said Annette, almost surprised into natural emotion. "Christ say to him one day, 'I was in prison, and you visited Me." The young officer looked as though he too would gladly have claimed a share in that blessing; and, in truth, he might have done so. But even the most unreserved hold some things sacred, and consecrate them by silence. He went on: "The Intendant examined him several times; but at last, when the end drew near, he was obliged by order of the king, to ask him solemnly, in the name of Him whose presence he was about to enter, whether there was any foundation for the popular rumours which attribute disloyal designs to the Protestants. Have the Protestants. a common treasury-a collection of weapons? Are they in correspondence with the English?' he asked. 'In all that,' M. Désubas replied, 'there is not a word of truth. The ministers preach nothing but patience, and fidelity to the king.' 'I am quite aware of it, monsieur,' was the Intendant's answer. "A yet stranger thing took place when at last his sentence was read in the crowded court. I saw nothing as I looked around save tearful faces; judges, lawyers, soldiers, citizens -all alike were moved. Many a doom have the Intendant's lips pronounced, nor did they falter then. But he added an unwonted comment: 'Such, monsieur, are the orders of the king; but, I assure you, I condemn you with sorrow.' 'I know it, monsieur,' the condemned answered calmly. My eyes were fixed and held by the noble serenity of his face, the only one there that had in it no sorrow-no regret. But presently there was a movement, as of surprise, amongst those around me, and a murmur passing along, 'Look! -M. l'Intendant.' Then I looked from the prisoner to the judge, and I saw that he was weeping, like all the rest.* "Shall I go on, madame? Have I told enough ?" "Go on, monsieur. Your words bring comfort." The captain lowered his voice and half averted his face as he continued, "The place of death was the Esplanade." "Well we know that place! From thence has many a martyr entered the joy of his Lord. Often did we talk But go on, monsieur." 66 Though I was very near all the time, yet I have no word for you, madame. No spoken word. None could be heard, for the thunder of the fourteen great drums which were beaten without ceasing around him. But he did not look as though he heard the clamour. The calm that had been his throughout was changed to glory then. Even the bitter accompaniments of his doom that glory touched and transfigured. The uncovered head and feet, the white, shroudlike shirt (his only garb), the halter on the neck, threw out into stronger relief that form so noble, that face so full of beauty. He knelt down at the foot of the ladder, raised his eyes and hands to heaven, and prayed fervently. Then he bade courteous farewell to the Jesuits who attended him, * All this is literally true. Antoine Court expressed some natural doubts that a man usually so stern and pitiless as the Intendant Lenain could have been surprised into tears; but he was obliged to accept the testimony of those who had witnessed the scene. |