A Beleaguered City Part 3

The first time, we all gathered together and listened, and many wept.

It was as if we heard our mother's voice. M. de Bois-Sombre burst into tears. I have never seen him within the doors of the Cathedral since his marriage; but he burst into tears. '_Mon Dieu!_ if I were but there!' he said. We stood and listened, our hearts melting, some falling on their knees. M. le Cure stood up in the midst of us and began to intone the psalm: [He has a beautiful voice. It is sympathetic, it goes to the heart.] 'I was glad when they said to me, Let us go up--' And though there were few of us who could have supposed themselves capable of listening to that sentiment a little while before with any sympathy, yet a vague hope rose up within us while we heard him, while we listened to the bells. What man is there to whom the bells of his village, the _carillon_ of his city, is not most dear? It rings for him through all his life; it is the first sound of home in the distance when he comes back--the last that follows him like a long farewell when he goes away.

While we listened, we forgot our fears. They were as we were, they were also our brethren, who rang those bells. We seemed to see them trooping into our beautiful Cathedral. All! only to see it again, to be within its shelter, cool and calm as in our mother's arms! It seemed to us that we should wish for nothing more.

When the sound ceased we looked into each other's faces, and each man saw that his neighbour was pale. Hope died in us when the sound died away, vibrating sadly through the air. Some men threw themselves on the ground in their despair.

And from this time forward many voices were heard, calls and shouts within the walls, and sometimes a sound like a trumpet, and other instruments of music. We thought, indeed, that noises as of bands patrolling along the ramparts were audible as our patrols worked their way round and round. This was a duty which I never allowed to be neglected, not because I put very much faith in it, but because it gave us a sort of employment. There is a story somewhere which I recollect dimly of an ancient city which its a.s.sailants did not touch, but only marched round and round till the walls fell, and they could enter.

Whether this was a story of cla.s.sic times or out of our own remote history, I could not recollect. But I thought of it many times while we made our way like a procession of ghosts, round and round, straining our ears to hear what those voices were which sounded above us, in tones that were familiar, yet so strange. This story got so much into my head (and after a time all our heads seemed to get confused and full of wild and bewildering expedients) that I found myself suggesting--I, a man known for sense and reason--that we should blow trumpets at some time to be fixed, which was a thing the ancients had done in the strange tale which had taken possession of me. M. le Cure looked at me with disapproval. He said, 'I did not expect from M. le Maire anything that was disrespectful to religion.' Heaven forbid that I should be disrespectful to religion at any time of life, but then it was impossible to me. I remembered after that the tale of which I speak, which had so seized upon me, was in the sacred writings; but those who know me will understand that no sneer at these writings or intention of wounding the feelings of M. le Cure was in my mind.

I was seated one day upon a little inequality of the ground, leaning my back against a half-withered hawthorn, and dozing with my head in my hands, when a soothing, which always diffuses itself from her presence, shed itself over me, and opening my eyes, I saw my Agnes sitting by me.

She had come with some food and a little linen, fresh and soft like her own touch. My wife was not gaunt and worn like me, but she was pale and as thin as a shadow. I woke with a start, and seeing her there, there suddenly came a dread over me that she would pa.s.s away before my eyes, and go over to Those who were within Semur. I cried '_Non, mon Agnes; non, mon Agnes:_ before you ask, No!' seizing her and holding her fast in this dream, which was not altogether a dream. She looked at me with a smile, that smile that has always been to me as the rising of the sun over the earth.

'_Mon ami_,' she said surprised, 'I ask nothing, except that you should take a little rest and spare thyself.' Then she added, with haste, what I knew she would say, 'Unless it were this, _mon ami_. If I were permitted, I would go into the city--I would ask those who are there what is their meaning: and if no way can be found--no act of penitence.--Oh! do not answer in haste! I have no fear; and it would be to save thee.'

A strong throb of anger came into my throat. Figure to yourself that I looked at my wife with anger, with the same feeling which had moved me when the deserters left us; but far more hot and sharp. I seized her soft hands and crushed them in mine. 'You would leave me!' I said. 'You would desert your husband. You would go over to our enemies!'

'O Martin, say not so,' she cried, with tears. 'Not enemies. There is our little Marie, and my mother, who died when I was born.'

'You love these dead tyrants. Yes,' I said, 'you love them best. You will go to--the majority, to the strongest. Do not speak to me! Because your G.o.d is on their side, you will forsake us too.'

Then she threw herself upon me and encircled me with her arms. The touch of them stilled my pa.s.sion; but yet I held her, clutching her gown, so terrible a fear came over me that she would go and come back no more.

'Forsake thee!' she breathed out over me with a moan. Then, putting her cool cheek to mine, which burned, 'But I would die for thee, Martin.'

'Silence, my wife: that is what you shall not do,' I cried, beside myself. I rose up; I put her away from me. That is, I know it, what has been done. Their G.o.d does this, they do not hesitate to say--takes from you what you love best, to make you better--_you!_ and they ask you to love Him when He has thus despoiled you! 'Go home, Agnes,' I said, hoa.r.s.e with terror. 'Let us face them as we may; you shall not go among them, or put thyself in peril. Die for me! _Mon Dieu!_ and what then, what should I do then? Turn your face from them; turn from them; go! go!

and let me not see thee here again.'

My wife did not understand the terror that seized me. She obeyed me, as she always does, but, with the tears falling from her white cheeks, fixed upon me the most piteous look. '_Mon ami_,' she said, 'you are disturbed, you are not in possession of yourself; this cannot be what you mean.'

'Let me not see thee here again!' I cried. 'Would you make me mad in the midst of my trouble? No! I will not have you look that way. Go home!

go home!' Then I took her into my arms and wept, though I am not a man given to tears. 'Oh! my Agnes,' I said, 'give me thy counsel. What you tell me I will do; but rather than risk thee, I would live thus for ever, and defy them.'

She put her hand upon my lips. 'I will not ask this again,' she said, bowing her head; 'but defy them--why should you defy them? Have they come for nothing? Was Semur a city of the saints? They have come to convert our people, Martin--thee too, and the rest. If you will submit your hearts, they will open the gates, they will go back to their sacred homes and we to ours. This has been borne in upon me sleeping and waking; and it seemed to me that if I could but go, and say, "Oh! my fathers, oh! my brothers, they submit," all would be well. For I do not fear them, Martin. Would they harm me that love us? I would but give our Marie one kiss----'

'You are a traitor!' I said. 'You would steal yourself from me, and do me the worst wrong of all----'

But I recovered my calm. What she said reached my understanding at last.

'Submit!' I said, 'but to what? To come and turn us from our homes, to wrap our town in darkness, to banish our wives and our children, to leave us here to be scorched by the sun and drenched by the rain,--this is not to convince us, my Agnes. And to what then do you bid us submit----?'

'It is to convince you, _mon ami_, of the love of G.o.d, who has permitted this great tribulation to be, that we might be saved,' said Agnes. Her face was sublime with faith. It is possible to these dear women; but for me the words she spoke were but words without meaning. I shook my head.

Now that my horror and alarm were pa.s.sed, I could well remember often to have heard words like these before.

'My angel!' I said, 'all this I admire, I adore in thee; but how is it the love of G.o.d?--and how shall we be saved by it? Submit! I will do anything that is reasonable; but of what truth have we here the proof----?'

Some one had come up behind as we were talking. When I heard his voice I smiled, notwithstanding my despair. It was natural that the Church should come to the woman's aid. But I would not refuse to give ear to M.

le Cure, who had proved himself a man, had he been ten times a priest.

'I have not heard what Madame has been saying, M. le Maire, neither would I interpose but for your question. You ask of what truth have we the proof here? It is the Unseen that has revealed itself. Do we see anything, you and I? Nothing, nothing, but a cloud. But that which we cannot see, that which we know not, that which we dread--look! it is there.'

I turned unconsciously as he pointed with his hand. Oh, heaven, what did I see! Above the cloud that wrapped Semur there was a separation, a rent in the darkness, and in mid heaven the Cathedral towers, pointing to the sky. I paid no more attention to M. le Cure. I sent forth a shout that roused all, even the weary line of the patrol that was marching slowly with bowed heads round the walls; and there went up such a cry of joy as shook the earth. 'The towers, the towers!' I cried. These were the towers that could be seen leagues off, the first sign of Semur; our towers, which we had been born to love like our father's name. I have had joys in my life, deep and great. I have loved, I have won honours, I have conquered difficulty; but never had I felt as now. It was as if one had been born again.

When we had gazed upon them, blessing them and thanking G.o.d, I gave orders that all our company should be called to the tent, that we might consider whether any new step could now be taken: Agnes with the other women sitting apart on one side and waiting. I recognised even in the excitement of such a time that theirs was no easy part. To sit there silent, to wait till we had spoken, to be bound by what we decided, and to have no voice--yes, that was hard. They thought they knew better than we did: but they were silent, devouring us with their eager eyes. I love one woman more than all the world; I count her the best thing that G.o.d has made; yet would I not be as Agnes for all that life could give me.

It was her part to be silent, and she was so, like the angel she is, while even Jacques Richard had the right to speak. _Mon Dieu!_ but it is hard, I allow it; they have need to be angels. This thought pa.s.sed through my mind even at the crisis which had now arrived. For at such moments one sees everything, one thinks of everything, though it is only after that one remembers what one has seen and thought. When my fellow-citizens gathered together (we were now less than a hundred in number, so many had gone from us), I took it upon myself to speak. We were a haggard, worn-eyed company, having had neither shelter nor sleep nor even food, save in hasty s.n.a.t.c.hes. I stood at the door of the tent and they below, for the ground sloped a little. Beside me were M. le Cure, M. de Bois-Sombre, and one or two others of the chief citizens.

'My friends,' I said, 'you have seen that a new circ.u.mstance has occurred. It is not within our power to tell what its meaning is, yet it must be a symptom of good. For my own part, to see these towers makes the air lighter. Let us think of the Church as we may, no one can deny that the towers of Semur are dear to our hearts.'

'M. le Maire,' said M. de Bois-Sombre, interrupting, 'I speak I am sure the sentiments of my fellow-citizens when I say that there is no longer any question among us concerning the Church; it is an admirable inst.i.tution, a universal advantage----'

'Yes, yes,' said the crowd, 'yes, certainly!' and some added, 'It is the only safeguard, it is our protection,' and some signed themselves. In the crowd I saw Riou, who had done this at the _octroi_. But the sign did not surprise me now.

M. le Cure stood by my side, but he did not smile. His countenance was dark, almost angry. He stood quite silent, with his eyes on the ground.

It gave him no pleasure, this profession of faith.

'It is well, my friends,' said I, 'we are all in accord; and the good G.o.d has permitted us again to see these towers. I have called you together to collect your ideas. This change must have a meaning. It has been suggested to me that we might send an amba.s.sador--a messenger, if that is possible, into the city--'

Here I stopped short; and a s.h.i.+ver ran through me--a s.h.i.+ver which went over the whole company. We were all pale as we looked in each other's faces; and for a moment no one ventured to speak. After this pause it was perhaps natural that he who first found his voice should be the last who had any right to give an opinion. Who should it be but Jacques Richard? 'M. le Maire,' cried the fellow, 'speaks at his ease--but who will thus risk himself?' Probably he did not mean that his grumbling should be heard, but in the silence every sound was audible; there was a gasp, a catching of the breath, and all turned their eyes again upon me.

I did not pause to think what answer I should give. 'I!' I cried. 'Here stands one who will risk himself, who will perish if need be--'

Something stirred behind me. It was Agnes who had risen to her feet, who stood with her lips parted and quivering, with her hands clasped, as if about to speak. But she did not speak. Well! she had proposed to do it.

Then why not I?

'Let me make the observation,' said another of our fellow-citizens, Bordereau the banker, 'that this would not be just. Without M. le Maire we should be a mob without a head. If a messenger is to be sent, let it be some one not so indispensable----'

'Why send a messenger?' said another, Philip Leclerc. 'Do we know that these Messieurs will admit any one? and how can you speak, how can you parley with those--' and he too, was seized with a s.h.i.+ver--'whom you cannot see?'

Then there came another voice out of the crowd. It was one who would not show himself, who was conscious of the mockery in his tone. 'If there is any one sent, let it be M. le Cure,' it said.

M. le Cure stepped forward. His pale countenance flushed red. 'Here am I,' he said, 'I am ready; but he who spoke speaks to mock me. Is it befitting in this presence?'

There was a struggle among the men. Whoever it was who had spoken (I did not wish to know), I had no need to condemn the mocker; they themselves silenced him; then Jacques Richard (still less worthy of credit) cried out again with a voice that was husky. What are men made of?

Notwithstanding everything, it was from the _cabaret_, from the wine-shop, that he had come. He said, 'Though M. le Maire will not take my opinion, yet it is this. Let them reopen the chapel in the hospital.

The ladies of St. Jean--'

'Hold thy peace,' I said, 'miserable!' But a murmur rose. 'Though it is not his part to speak, I agree,' said one. 'And I.' 'And I.' There was well-nigh a tumult of consent; and this made me angry. Words were on my lips which it might have been foolish to utter, when M. de Bois-Sombre, who is a man of judgment, interfered.

'M. le Maire,' he said, 'as there are none of us here who would show disrespect to the Church and holy things--that is understood--it is not necessary to enter into details. Every restriction that would wound the most susceptible is withdrawn; not one more than another, but all. We have been indifferent in the past, but for the future you will agree with me that everything shall be changed. The amba.s.sador--whoever he may be--' he added with a catching of his breath, 'must be empowered to promise--everything--submission to all that may be required.'

Here the women could not restrain themselves; they all rose up with a cry, and many of them began to weep. 'Ah!' said one with a hysterical sound of laughter in her tears. '_Sainte Mere_! it will be heaven upon earth.'

M. le Cure said nothing; a keen glance of wonder, yet of subdued triumph, shot from under his eyelids. As for me, I wrung my hands: 'What you say will be superst.i.tion; it will be hypocrisy,' I cried.

But at that moment a further incident occurred. Suddenly, while we deliberated, a long loud peal of a trumpet sounded into the air. I have already said that many sounds had been heard before; but this was different; there was not one of us that did not feel that this was addressed to himself. The agitation was extreme; it was a summons, the beginning of some distinct communication. The crowd scattered; but for myself, after a momentary struggle, I went forward resolutely. I did not even look back at my wife. I was no longer Martin Dupin, but the Maire of Semur, the saviour of the community. Even Bois-Sombre quailed: but I felt that it was in me to hold head against death itself; and before I had gone two steps I felt rather than saw that M. le Cure had come to my side. We went on without a word; gradually the others collected behind us, following yet straggling here and there upon the inequalities of the ground.

Before us lay the cloud that was Semur, a darkness defined by the s.h.i.+ning of the summer day around, the river escaping from that gloom as from a cavern, the towers piercing through, but the suns.h.i.+ne thrown back on every side from that darkness. I have spoken of the walls as if we saw them, but there were no walls visible, nor any gate, though we all turned like blind men to where the Porte St. Lambert was. There was the broad vacant road leading up to it, leading into the gloom. We stood there at a little distance. Whether it was human weakness or an invisible barrier, how can I tell? We stood thus immovable, with the trumpet pealing out over us, out of the cloud. It summoned every man as by his name. To me it was not wonderful that this impression should come, but afterwards it was elicited from all that this was the feeling of each. Though no words were said, it was as the calling of our names.

We all waited in such a supreme agitation as I cannot describe for some communication that was to come.

When suddenly, in a moment, the trumpet ceased; there was an interval of dead and terrible silence; then, each with a leap of his heart as if it would burst from his bosom, we saw a single figure slowly detach itself out of the gloom. 'My G.o.d!' I cried. My senses went from me; I felt my head go round like a straw tossed on the winds.

To know them so near, those mysterious visitors--to feel them, to hear them, was not that enough? But, to see! who could bear it? Our voices rang like broken chords, like a tearing and rending of sound. Some covered their faces with their hands; for our very eyes seemed to be drawn out of their sockets, fluttering like things with a separate life.

Then there fell upon us a strange and wonderful calm. The figure advanced slowly; there was weakness in it. The step, though solemn, was feeble; and if you can figure to yourself our consternation, the pause, the cry--our hearts dropping back as it might be into their places--the sudden stop of the wild panting in our b.r.e.a.s.t.s: when there became visible to us a human face well known, a man as we were. 'Lecamus!' I cried; and all the men round took it up, crowding nearer, trembling yet delivered from their terror; some even laughed in the relief. There was but one who had an air of discontent, and that was M. le Cure. As he said 'Lecamus!' like the rest, there was impatience, disappointment, anger in his tone.